


The Case of the Missing Key: A Beauregard Lionett Mystery

by EnemyAnemone912



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:20:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22112476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnemyAnemone912/pseuds/EnemyAnemone912
Summary: New York is a city with magic running in its veins. As an Expositor for the Cobalt Soul Detective Agency, Beauregard Lionett is integral in protecting the fine balance of magic and technology that exists in the city. However, with the disappearance of a powerful item, that balance is in jeopardy, and she may be the only one who can save it.Or...The Cobalt Soul as a magical Pinkerton Agency in a magical 1920's New York. A little bit noir, a little bit "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them", a lot Critical Role, and a little attempted historical accuracy (as a treat).
Relationships: Beauregard & Caduceus Clay & Fjord & Jester Lavorre & Nott & Caleb Widogast & Yasha, Beauregard Lionett & The Mighty Nein, Beauregard Lionett/Tori, Dairon & Beauregard Lionett, Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett
Comments: 14
Kudos: 59





	1. I

The fist slammed into the wall over Beau’s head, and the ensuing wind from the attempted strike knocked her navy blue fedora from her head. The momentum of her dodge pushed her downward, and she swung her leg out to trip her assailant. Thwack! The man fell to the floor, and Beau stomped down, once, twice, until his eyes fluttered shut. 

A fist rocketed into her face and she went sprawling backwards, her shoulder catching on a corner of a bookshelf, and the thick material of her suit jacket wrinkled. The man in front of her smiled, pulling out a small six-shot revolver from inside his double-breasted coat pocket. “Fuck!” Beau yelled as she dove to the side, avoiding the first two shots. The third clipped her in the calf, drawing a line of blinding white pain into her skin before embedding itself in the wall. Beau stopped her roll behind the sturdy desk, getting her bearings. 

The man’s voice called out from the middle of the study. “I can do this all day, detective. You trespass on my private property, you face the consequences.” 

Beau merely grimaced in response. Could the guy have chosen a more cliche line? Her hands scrambled on the floor, searching for anything that could be useful as a weapon. Her hands landed on a few wood shards. That would do. She tapped her coat pocket again. The notebook, her quarry, stayed safe and sound in her pocket. She could leave, distract the guy, and sprint out of the townhouse, mission accomplished, but what was the fun in that? Besides, now that she’d been shot, she wanted to make him suffer. Just a little bit. 

She paused in her assessment to note the slight creak of floorboards. He was walking. Very stealthily, sure, but he was moving closer. She had to bite back her grin. She couldn’t plan it better herself. Wait, wait, wait… The footsteps halted, a foot away from her desk, and she could pick up the barely perceptible click as the hammer of the gun locked in place. Now.

She burst up in a flurry of activity, her left hand hurling the wood chips into the man’s eyes as she vaulted over the desk. He got off one shot, firing blindly into the ceiling as his other hand frantically tried to pull the splinters out from his pupils. Beau was already there, snapping his wrist neatly so the gun fell to the floor, and, in two quick strikes, one to the sternum and one to the temple, the man fell beside his weapon. Beau stood, defensively, waiting for more assailants for a few more moments before relaxing. 

She walked back over to the wall, dusting off her fedora before repositioning it delicately on her head. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: bright blood speckling her dark skin in contrast to the bright eyes beaming back at her. The torn and scuffed dapper suit, the unknotted tie. Her hair fell messily around her shoulders. Beau smiled back at her reflection. She felt violently, perfectly alive.

Just as she was about to exit the townhouse, after limping down the stairs and wrapping her calf in some cheesecloth from the man’s kitchen (he was dead, he wouldn’t care), she paused at the phone. She picked it up. “Operator, how many I help you?”

“The uh, Cobalt Soul Detective Agency. Union Square offices.” Beau waited for the tone, a little ringing beep that told her she was alone on the line. “Yes, hi. This is Expositor Beauregard Lionett, requesting cleanup at 100 West 34th street. Yes, full crew. Three bodies. As far as I know they were all human, none of them burst into slime or any of that shit. Great, thank you. I’ll be back at the branch shortly.” Beau hung up without listening for a response, walking out of the townhouse.

As she made the mile and a half long trek back to the offices, Beau pondered the mission. If she was going to be frank about it, it had kind of sucked ass. She thought that, as an Expositor, after ten years with the agency, she wouldn’t have to deal with normal humans anymore. And yet, last week, Dairon had summoned her into their office, which Beau had assumed was just going to be another lecture about her new responsibilities. Instead, Dairon had told her to tail this random art dealer in order to get a notebook with a picture of the subway map on the front. 

Beau followed the fellow for one week before finding the location of the notebook, and in that time came to realize he just might’ve been the most boring fucker to ever exist. He was an art dealer involved with no magical smuggling ring, no underground mafia, nothing. Not even a fight club! (Beau might’ve been an agent of the Cobalt Soul, but even she still participated in secret magical fight clubs from time to time.) She hadn’t expected the man to put up such a fight once she was discovered stealing his notebook. At least the flunkies were one-hit idiots. 

Beau maneuvered through the throngs at Union Square to squeeze into a skinny yet impossibly tall building. She couldn’t put a finger on why she didn’t trust elevators, though they’d been around now for about 70 years, except that she didn’t love the feeling of free fall. That little lift right at the beginning of the ride when you could either ascend upwards or plummet down, and there was no way to tell which it was going to be.

She entered the elevator, and the tattoo at the back of her neck, the all-seeing eye of Ioun, began to tingle, and her Sight cleared. It was almost like a slight haze was lifted, and the Irish elevator operator morphed into a troll before her very eyes. 

The Sight was… Interesting, to say the least. Beau had always had flashes of it, which was part of the reason she had taken to the work of the Cobalt Soul in the first place. She remembered being a kid, playing with her friend Angie Lopez in San Juan Hill, down by the Hudson River, and then seeing Angie’s hair, always so lively, become snakes before her very eyes. Beau had recoiled in horror, but the next instant, the curls were back, no vipers to be seen. She must have made it up. Or when she was sprinting through Central Park with some rich man’s purse, chased by mounted police, when she realized that the horse and the man were one. Her stopping had caused her to get arrested that first time. Beau learned quick. She didn’t stop after that.

The Sight was almost like Beau was seeing two worlds at once. As Dairon had explained it to her, there was this thick magical fog hanging around New York, a mixture of old Indigenous magic and ley lines and the Dutch that settled in what was then New Amsterdam. The fog was known as Nebula Magus (the Dutch were real big on the classics), though the Wappinger Tribe settled on the island of Manhattan had referred to it as the M’téoulin. It obscured the magic and non-human peoples of the city, and versions of it existed in every other major city on Earth. Having the Sight meant that you could pierce through it, with practice and discipline. Beau’s tattoo, gained when she became an Expositor, did that for her. She could choose whether to see the world with or without the Nebula Magus. 

The troll cleared her throat, and Beau realized she must have been zoning out. “Sorry, Ula. Take me straight to the top, please.” Ula grunted in response, and pulled the lever of the elevator all the way down. Sigils flickered lazily to life, arcanic light surging beneath the machinery, and the elevator shot up, past the point where the building seemed to end, straight up, many more floors. It finally came crashing to a stop, and Beau stepped out.

The top level of the Cobalt Soul seemed more busy than usual. Bigwig Archivists and Expositors were dashing around, all exchanging reproachful looks at Beau as she walked through the halls, dripping blood on the wooden floors. The high ceiling soared above her, walls lined door to door with bookshelves and tomes. Beau was used to the looks she got whenever she paid Dairon a visit. Most high-ranking members of the Cobalt Soul were Elven or Half-Elven, and just general bastards to normal humans. Beau may have been a bastard of Black and Indigenous and Puerto Rican and English and German and god knows what else heritage, but at least she wasn’t a dick about it. She was an asshole about many things, but not that. Never that.

Beau headed down the long corridor, brushing by the other similarly be-suited members of the order, doffing her fedora to those who seemed important enough, finally stopping at a small wooden door with a frosted window. She rapped it lightly with her knuckles. 

“Who is it?” Dairon’s lightly accented voice echoed through the door.

“It’s me.”

“Beauregard. Please come in.”

Dairon’s office bore no signs that anyone occupied it for a significant amount of time; Beau always got the sense that they were ready to pack up and run at a moment’s notice. There were only a few books lining the numerous shelves in the room, a desk filled with orderly paper, a chair across from the desk, and a side table covered in high-end alcohol. Dairon sat behind their desk, their suit crisply ironed, head freshly shaved. The only slight deviation from the standard outfit of the Cobalt Soul was a single gold piercing in their left ear, accentuating the Elven pointiness. 

Beau threw her jacket over the back of the chair (not as casually as normal, since she was in a fair bit of pain), and flopped unceremoniously on the chair itself. She started to fix her appearance as much as she could in the moment: she rolled up her sleeves to make invisible their slashed cuffs, she tightened her tie and suspenders, she pulled her hair back into a bun. Dairon merely watched her, no expression passing over their face. Once Beau was done, Dairon finally spoke.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks for noticing what none of the hundreds of fucking healers in this building didn’t see,” Beau snorted.

Dairon’s brow furrowed. “Do you require immediate healing, Beauregard?”

“Not really. But, uh, some of that hooch would be really nice.”

Dairon silently stood up, and poured her three fingers of whiskey, no ice. They made themselves a vodka tonic. Finally, they spoke again. “You have the notebook?”

Beau rummaged in her jacket, finally pulling out the battered little journal, but she didn’t immediately give it to Dairon. “So what the fuck, Dairon?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a fucking Expositor, and you just waste me on some bullshit human, non-magical art dealer. I flipped through this journal,” Beau stopped Dairon from interjecting, “and yeah, I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I had to check, y’know? And it was nothing. Some bullshit about his love, ‘Desdemona’. Why does the Cobalt Soul even care, Dairon?”

Beau hadn’t expected Dairon to start laughing quietly to themselves. She waited for the laughter to subside before cocking an eyebrow at them expectantly, demanding an answer. “You’re right, Beauregard. The situation you present is beneath your talents.”

“Thank you.”

“However, that is not the whole truth.” Dairon sighed, and Beau suddenly saw deep lines of worry and sleep deprivation, which was odd, considering elves generally don’t sleep, as far as she’s aware. “The truth is, Beauregard, that the city is… Under attack, as it were. Subtly, sure, but under attack nevertheless.”

They picked up a neat stack of paper, tucking it into a drawer within the desk, to reveal a map of the city. “Point out to me the nexus of power in the city.”

Beau scoffed. “Easy,” she said, pointing out Trinity Church Wall Street on the map. “The intersection of religious, political, and financial interests in the city, all atop the biggest reservoir of magic in all of New England.” 

Dairon nodded, pulling out a thick pencil, and marking the spot on the map. “Good. And social power. Where does that lie?” Beau pointed to Central Park. “And the knowledge of the people?” The 42nd Street Library. “And why are these places so important to the very arcane fabric of the city?”

“Because these three institutions are the pillars on which the Nebula Magus is sustained. C’mon Dairon, this is like ley lines for children. Why are we doing this?”

When Beau made eye contact with Dairon, their eyes were burning with the severity of what they were about to say. “What were to happen if one of these places were attacked?”

“Ummm… The entire Nebula Magus would break down, first in that specific area and then across the whole city because the other pillars wouldn’t have enough arcane power to manage it. Complete anarchy, normal people going crazy. The entire city would fall apart overnight.” Beau half-laughed, her mind running wild at the possibility. “But Dairon, if there were a breach in the Nebula, everyone would know. It would be on the front cover of the New York World the next morning.”

“Unless,” they intoned, “those creating the breach did not want you to know.” Beau leaned back in disbelief. “Two weeks ago, thieves broke into the Main Branch of the public library. They created a small breach, enough to create a distraction among the librarians that they were able to take an object. The Key to the city.” 

Beau’s eyes were wide with terror. “But that means… With the Key…” 

“They have access to any hidden building, any temple. Any wall in the city, they can break down. They could use it to completely dismantle the Nebula Magus. Complete chaos, as you so eloquently put it.”

Beau shook her head once more. “I… I don’t get it, Dairon. I mean, it makes sense now why the top brass is freaking the fuck out up here but… Why the notebook?”

Dairon pushed it back across the table to Beau. “Open it. Look closer.”

Beau opened the notebook to a random page, and stared. The words were clear on the page the first time she looked at them, but when she bore down on them, they seemed to shift and change, becoming more and more murky. It made her head hurt to look, but the more she looked, the more they dissolved, and her tattoo began to itch and tingle, heating up as she honed in with her Sight on the page. The pressure built, like a pick drilling into the base of her neck, before it split with a moment of brilliant pain, and the Nebula Magus pulled back, revealing the truth of the book’s contents. The map spilled out from its pages, with a swirling nexus of words and street names. It filled the page. There were ley lines and objects and buildings and even people, glowing with a faint light on street corners. 

“It’s…” Beau fought for the right word, the pain subsiding the more she got used to the object in her hands. “It’s a document of all the magic in the city. But… this should be locked in the library not in some random art dealer’s house.”

“Another stolen object, I believe. He was not just some art dealer, Beauregard. We believe there is one group enacting this plan. We need you to figure out who they are, who they are working for, and what their exact plans are so we can prepare a course of action.” Dairon leaned forward, their elbows resting tightly on the desk. “This item is valuable, meaning that there are some very important people implicated in this plot. You must trust no one, Beauregard, unless I have contacted them beforehand. Do you understand?”

Beau took a shaky breath, wincing a little at the force it exerted on her ribs. “Don’t trust anyone. Report directly to you, I assume. Secrecy needed to save the city. Do I have it all?”

A smile curled at the corners of their mouth. “The essentials.” The smile vanished as soon as it had appeared. Dairon looked terrifying and terrified simultaneously, and in that instant, Beau understood how serious this was. Dairon never got scared. They had worked covert operations in Germany in World War I without getting scared, back when Beau was in training. “Beauregard, this may be the most important mission you ever work on. You may not come back from it.”

Beau gulped. If Dairon was giving her an out instead of just ordering her to do it, it must really be bad. She felt the fear rising in her, but she remembered the training she had received. She remembered the cool breeze of the Adirondacks in summertime, the gentle swaying of the grass, the bubbling of the stream under the clear blue sky. Beau centered herself, eyes snapping open to meet Dairon’s. In a soft, firm voice, she said, “I understand, Dairon. But if there’s corruption, if there’s danger, if this mystery needs solving, that’s… Well, that’s why I’m here. That’s what we do, right?”

Dairon nodded. “That is what we do.”

Beau stood up, pulling her jacket off the back of the chair and onto her shoulders in one fluid motion, adrenaline replacing the pain in her body with coiled energy. “I figure I’ll start by paying a visit to the library, seeing what I can find out about the magic holding the city together and how the Key plays into it.”

“I have a friend there, whom I trust,” Dairon said. “I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

“Good.” Beau picked up her glass, forgotten in the excitement of the new mission. She downed it, screwing up her face dramatically as the warm whiskey shot through her body. She gave Dairon a tight salute, then turned to leave the office. Just as she was about to, she paused, and pivoted back towards Dairon. “For this sort of thing… I’ve got some old contacts, criminals, who might come in handy. Can I…”

Dairon interrupted her with another small smile and a handwave. “Why do you think I assigned you this case, Beauregard? Yes, of course.”

Beau beamed. “Perfect. Thanks, Dairon.”

“Beau?”

“Hm?” Beau started. Dairon rarely abbreviated her name. She made eye contact, the dark eyes of her mentor giving away nothing.

“May Ioun guide you to the truth.” Dairon’s voice shook a little.

“And may her eye watch over you,” Beau responded in turn. Dairon dipped their head in acknowledgement. Then, Beauregard left. The door slammed behind her with a sort of foreboding finality, and Beau knew that Dairon, too, was fearing this would be the last time they would be sending their protegee out into the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and add a little index of various things that I took inspiration from or referenced at the end of each chapter. But all in all, this story is heavily influenced by the fiction of Paul Auster, the works of Dashiell Hammett, film noir, "The Diviners" series by Libba Bray, Dimension 20: The Unsleeping City, and my own experiences living in New York. I'm fascinated by the Jazz Age, and as a (potential) history major, this is a fun way to incorporate some stuff I know. I'm going to try to be as accurate as possible, but if I make mistakes, please, correct me! 
> 
> I'd also like to preface this story by saying that all members of the Mighty Nein will show up at some point, but they all are quite different people than those we know and love, in large part because many of them are meeting later in life. I'll try to keep characterization as close to the original as possible, but many of them have different backstories that I hope to explore. 
> 
> This fanfic may end up becoming a beast, but I'm excited to undertake this journey with y'all!
> 
> Index:  
> Nebula Magus: literally magic fog in latin.  
> M’téoulin: The word in Eastern-Algonquin for "Native Magic"  
> San Juan Hill: The neighborhood currently known as Hell's Kitchen, in Manhattan in the west 40s and 50s, formerly occupied by many Puerto Rican Migrants after the Jones-Shafroth act of 1917 that made Puerto Ricans citizens of the United States  
> The Elevator: Invented in 1852 by Elisha Otis  
> Trinity Church Wall Street: Episcopal Church, first chartered in 1697  
> Central Park: Built by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux in 1857  
> The New York Public Library at 42nd Street: Constructed in 1911


	2. II

It was nearly dark when she arrived at the Main Branch of the Library. The December chill bit into her bones, through her thin suit and seeped into the wounds underneath. She winced, regretting her choice not to seek healing at the Cobalt Soul. Beau squinted through the dim light across Bryant Park, where two massive stone lions signalled the back entrance of the library. The mages of the Bowne Occult Society had chosen this location as the hub of magical intellectual life after they discovered the ruins of a subterranean temple to Bast a few blocks away. However, in typical New York real estate fashion, the deed to the land where Bryant Park currently sat was the only one available. 

Beau trudged around to the front of the building, pausing in front of another matching set of lions. Glancing to make sure no one was paying attention to her (and considering how much other people cared only about themselves, no one was), Beau knocked three times on the nose of the lion to the left of the stairs. She felt the strange sensation of heat running her over from an unknown source, a nice contrast to the cold late-afternoon air, before she started to hear the crunching of stone on stone. Beau stumbled hastily back, as the statue turned down, bowing its head to the patch of earth where Beau had just been standing. The sidewalk was now a series of spiralling stairs, descending into darkness. Beau started walking down them, the crunch above her head sealing her in.

With each step she took, another small electrical light flickered to life above her, before turning off the second she left that specific stair. She walked for what felt like an endless amount of time, before arriving at an atrium of smooth carved stone. Three doors led out of the chamber, all perfectly identical. Beau fucking hated the society for this. There was always some puzzle or riddle that you had to solve before you could access the stacks, and even with papers of authorization from the Cobalt Soul, she still had to undergo the task. She had a sneaking suspicion that the society just enjoyed making her suffer for the knowledge. She got it. The problem was that the society was extremely valuable; they were the greatest source of arcane texts in the city. The archives of the Cobalt Soul had the who, where, what, why, and when of every arcane event, person, or thing in the history of the city; but only the Bowne Occult Society’s tomes contained the how. 

She set about examining the atrium, running her hands over featureless wall and trying the handles on the doors. All three opened, into further dark nothingness. There were no markings on their plain wooden facades, or a sigil carved into the floor. Beau stood in the center of the room after her investigation, hoping that perhaps seeing all three of them at once would give her some hints as to an answer. The tattoo and her Sight were no use either, as the magic wasn’t even trying to hide its presence here. It was everywhere, and Beau could almost feel it coating her skin, like a layer of mist at the beginning of a rainstorm. She closed her eyes, letting the tiredness of the day wash over her. Maybe when she opened them she’d have a fresh perspective. Or something.

An indeterminate amount of time later, because Beau was wiped out, she felt a small, soft pressure on her leg. Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the lack of a perceptible light source in the room, to focus in on the small Bengal cat rubbing against her leg. Beau dropped down. “Hey, little guy. How’d you get here?” The cat purred playfully in response, though Beau suspected that was due more to her scratching it than anything else. 

Beau kept scratching, glancing back at the doors. It took a long time, but she noticed a small nick in the corner of one, with a, upon further reflection, tell-tale sign of cat claws. “Should I take you back to your owner, huh? Yeah? Yeah, you’re a good kitty. C’mon,” Beau picked it up, continuing to pet it, and approached the door with the miniscule scratches. “This the way?” There was no answer. “Yeah, I should’ve figured. You’re just a cat. Pretty dumb that I’m talking to you. God, I’m still doing it… Let’s just go.”

The door slammed shut behind her, and the darkness faded away instantaneously, revealing a large lobby, filled with cozy armchairs, a raging fireplace in the corner, and a slick checkered floor. The ornateness of the engravings on the ceiling, depicting arcane plants and animals native to New York, surprised Beau. This was a different entrance to the library than she was familiar with, apparently. A reference desk took up one corner of the wall, next to the doors leading towards the stacks, which were currently blocked off with a velvet rope. Several elves and half-orcs filled the chairs, reading the newspaper and sipping tea. As Beau entered, a particularly snobby half-orc gave her a condescending look, appraising her slightly tattered uniform, before muttering, “The library really is lowering their standards.” The cat leapt from her arms, scampering to the reference desk to be absentmindedly scratched by the attendant sitting there, engrossed in his own book. Which seemed, to Beau, a little stupid, considering all the people waiting to be served.

She approached the desk, clearing her throat and making her normally silent steps noticeably loud. “Excuse me, I’m looking for some research and I was wondering-”

He wordlessly pointed a sign in floral script beside the desk without even looking up. All she could see was the thick head of red hair as she read, “Please take a number.” He then pointed across the room, next to the neat stack of daily newspapers, where a machine waited with a slip of paper. Beau took one. 12. She slumped into a seat in disgust. If they had to take numbers, why wasn’t the man serving them? No one else seemed upset, but she did assume that no one else had as important a task as she did. She picked up a paper, pulled out one of the pencils she had stolen from Dairon’s desk, and began to attempt the daily crossword.

She was about half-way through, trying to remember what Rochester’s house was named, when the man spoke out, loud and clear even with his noticeable German accent. “Thank you all for coming, but the library is closing now. You can exit the way you came.” Beau’s head shot up in surprise and anger, and she made direct eye contact with the man as he added, “Except for you, Cobalt Soul. I would like a word with you.”

The snobbish folk didn’t seem especially keen on being kicked out without being attended to, but they left. Beau waited till she heard the slamming of doors before approaching the desk. 

“I’m Expositor-”

“I know who you are, Miss Lionett,” he cut her off quickly, running a hand through his long hair. Now that she had a good look at him, he was rather thin and pale, with a few days of stubble covering the lower half of his face. He was wearing the normal purple coat of the Bowne Occult Society, which, interestingly enough, signified a higher rank than a mere reference attendant, but an abnormal flowy scarf was wrapped around his neck. “Dairon called ahead.”

“You’re their friend?”

“Acquaintance is probably the more accurate word, but ya. I am an associate of theirs.”  
“And I can trust you?” Beau leaned in close, as close as she could over the desk, getting the sense that even in her weakened condition she could easily take him, so long as she broke his hands before he could cast some horrendous shit on her.

He smiled thinly, the action not reaching his eyes. “Ya. As much as you can trust anyone, I suppose.”

Beau scoffed slightly. “How can I trust you if I don’t even know your name?” His eyes dipped nervously downward, and Beau’s eyebrows tilted in confusion. She had this flash of recollection, somehow. A scene, very far away in her memory, from the beginning of her time with the Cobalt Soul. She’d been working overtime, to try and convince her trainer at the time, fucking Zeenoth, that she was able to take orders and progress in rank. She had been working as security at the graduation of the latest class from Soltryce College, up at Columbia. She remembered it mostly because of that creep giving the speech, Trent Ikithon. What a creepy guy. There had been attendants there as well, younger students, working the event. Making sure the wards were working, filling glasses with wine, things like that. One of them reminded Beau in some way of the man standing before her, though this guy carried himself like he was about to crack any second. The boy working that event had been all smiles and charms, flirting with pretty much anyone. 

The man in front of her glanced down, nervously playing with the end of his scarf for a moment. “I am Junior Archmage Caleb Widogast.”

“Pleasure to meet you. Can I call you Caleb?” He shrugged in assent. Beau was positive that boy at Soltryce College hadn’t been named Caleb. “So… Can I see the books?”

A more real grin passed over Caleb’s face. “Ya. Where do your interests lie?”

“I want the actual spell that holds together the Nebula Magus. See how it could be broken. And then I want to examine the room where the Key was stolen. Is that possible?”

“Of course. But,” he looked around suspiciously, “This is not necessarily above board, yes? The society is very wary of news of the theft getting out.”

“Understood. For self evident reasons, that’s also a big concern for the Cobalt Soul.”

“Good. Stand back, please.” Beau obliged, taking a step back. The cat leapt down to join her, curling its tail around one of her ankles. Caleb turned to the few shelves behind him, reaching into the pocket of his coat to retrieve three small metal nails. He tossed them up into the air, and as he did so, his right hand curled around itself before flicking upwards. Arcane light shot from his fingers to the nails, and they flew towards the wall, embedding themselves with perfect accuracy into tiny little holes that Beau would have never known even existed. A click, as though a lock was just undone, reverberated through the room, and the wall just vanished, revealing a long wooden corridor, lined with windows to vast rooms of books, scrolls, and objects. 

Caleb beckoned her forward with a wave of his hand, and Beau entered, realizing all of a sudden that this was where the real magic was. The other room she had been in for hours on end preparing research papers was nothing compared to the wealth of knowledge in the first door alone, which merely said ‘Time’. They kept walking, the cat keeping pace behind Beau, until the natural light from the lobby began to fade, and, with a snap of his fingers, Caleb summoned three globules of light to follow them. 

“Thanks,” Beau said, gesturing to the light. 

Caleb chuckled. “Don’t worry. I also spend my days with creatures that don’t need to see. I get it.” Beau smiled at that. She was starting to get why Caleb and Dairon might be acquaintances.

“You said Junior Archmage, right?”

“Ya. I am the apprentice of Archmage Essek Theyless here at the Bowne Occult Society, and, upon his ascension or retirement, I will take over, so to speak.”

“That’s a pretty important position. Especially if you haven’t been here that long.”

Caleb’s stride broke for a moment before continuing. Beau couldn’t really see his face, but his next sentences sounded clipped and forced. Even the cat seemed less friendly towards her. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh, nothing,” Beau covered quickly. “You’re just pretty young and human so… You must be quite talented.”

“Thank you.”

“Where did you study?” 

“It’s not very interesting, I’m afraid.”

Beau laughed. “I’m just curious. My brain needs something to ponder for five seconds while we walk. There’s, uh, no need to answer.”

Caleb glanced back, eyebrows knitted together. “No, it is fine, I suppose. Just strange. I was educated at the Blumenthal School for Magic in Berlin, and then did my undergraduate studies at Bowne College, inside of New York University.”

“Weird. I usually feel like international students study at Soltryce, but, what do I fucking know, I’m not a mage.” Beau knew instantly she was right, because Caleb’s entire body seemed to tense up at the mention of Soltryce College. For some reason, he had changed his name, and abandoned his life there. But it wouldn’t do her any good to press him further. He’s Dairon’s pal, she reminded herself harshly. Stop fucking treating him like he’s a fucking suspect.

Caleb halted in front of a door marked, appropriately enough, ‘Nebula Magus’.

Beau tried to peer in through the glass, but it was tough to make anything out. “Could we start with the room where the Key was taken.”

Caleb shook his head. “Nein. The Key and the fundamental magics are all contained in here. It’s our most protected chamber.”

“So how did they break in?”

Annoyance flashed across Caleb’s face. “We don’t really know yet, but we’re working on it.” He placed his hand over the keyhole, and murmured a few words under his breath. The keyhole melted down, the remnants of the lock floating down to encase the doorknob in a shimmery foam. He then turned the knob, opening the door. “You have exactly one hour. The necessary book will be on the first shelf. If you stay any longer, the magic in the room will probably asphyxiate you.”

“Probably?”

He shrugged. “The poison works differently on everyone, but it seems to like choking people at the moment.”

Beau gulped. “Should I like, bang on the door or something if I need you?”

“Nein. I’ll send in Frumpkin with you. I will be able to see through his eyes.”

Beau nodded, then gingerly stepped over the threshold. She was immediately startled by the bright light flooding in from the roof. The ceiling soared up, high overhead, pure shimmering glass, and the floor of the room was now a soft, grassy bed of moss and fallen leaves. The main thing that appeared to be supporting the room was a large oak tree, and trees made up the walls of the chamber, knots and nooks in the branches filled with scrolls and books. 

She made her way to what loosely appeared to be the first “shelf”, a small willow tree. A knot at the base, near the roots, held a single tome: The Spelling of New York. It was old and compact, with a cracking leather binding and pages that felt like thin pieces of plaster which could be easily broken at the slightest touch. Beau started to read.

It was clear to her that she did not have the facility with arcane workings that would make deciphering the language easy. This was dense, academic analysis of the fundamental magic anchoring all of New York City. The best that she could make out was that the three centers of the city all possessed access to the deep fountain of magic underneath New York. These centers, due to certain binding rituals performed, functioned as a tap, regulating magic to the city and to the maintenance of the Nebula Magus. Each center, in turn, had its own tools for ensuring that, even if part of the physical building or its guardians were to fall, or simply break down, it would remain standing, and the entire Nebula Magus would not collapse. In fact, because of the regulation of power, it required two centers of power to stop functioning before it would fall apart. The amount of fail safes made Beau’s head hurt, but she thanked those fucking paranoid mages that they made it so complicated to destroy the magic of the city.

Best she could tell, a tremendous amount of work had been put in to even slightly break the wards on the library enough to steal the Key. Which was good. The bad news was that the Key could break one of the failsafes, enabling them to take another item of power, and so on and so on. So this mysterious organization already had a tremendous jump on her. 

For some reason, as she read, she kept returning to the idea of this well of arcane power below the surface of the city. Something about that seemed important. What would happen to it if the valve that delicately piped it into the city was turned off? Would it explode out, or would it never return to the surface? They could be dealing with some crazy group that wanted to merge the city of magic and the normal New York, or it could be one that wanted to eradicate magic altogether.

Beau glanced at her watch. Shit. Forty minutes gone by in the blink of an eye. She returned the book to the knot in the willow, and began searching the chamber. It was relatively small, and she did a quick pacing around it, but found nothing. It had been torn through and cleaned up by previous Expositors, who, presumably, had found nothing important or Dairon would have shared it with her. Beau, finishing her search with a few minutes left to spare, scrawled down her notes and observations before stowing that notebook safely back in her pocket. She slipped out of the chamber just as some faraway clock proclaimed the arrival of the hour.

Caleb stood up to greet her. “Beauregard. I was beginning to worry that you had forgotten the time.”

“I almost did. It’s kind of an addictive room.”

“Any good book is like that, ya?”

Beau smiled widely back at Caleb, and he returned it. “Agreed. Thank you for doing this.”

Caleb shook his head. “Of course. Here,” he fumbled again inside his coat before removing an embossed black piece of paper. “My card. In case you should need me again.” 

Beau thanked him again, knelt down to pet Frumpkin, and left. This time, as she exited the warm lobby into the featureless atrium, there were no additional doors, only the tall winding staircase.

The wind tore into her as she emerged from underneath the lion, and bits of sleet and hail stung as they flew into her eyes. She turned her collar up into the wind, making the long, freezing walk back to Chinatown, and her apartment. A block from her place, fully frozen into an ice cube from the fast-growing storm, she bought a few steaming pork dumplings, scarfing them down hungrily. 

She left the restaurant warmer and in better spirits than when she entered, the ideal situation for a winter’s night. She kept her head down, reaching for her key to walk up the stairs to her apartment, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She instinctively reared her elbow back, making contact with the meaty torso of the unknown assailant, and felt a surge of pride when she heard the whispered curses. She turned around, hands up and at the ready, when she noticed the figure wasn’t attacking. They had their hands wrapped around their side, head bent away from her view, mostly from the snow, she suspected. She kept in a defensive position as they raised their head, in case they were going to strike. 

Instead, she was met with the face of a very wounded half-orc. “Jesus, Beau. You can’t stop from punching me a single damn time.”

A real smile curled at her mouth, and she let her hands fall to her sides. “Sorry, Fjord. Working a new case. You can’t be too careful.”

“I understand,” he muttered in his Texas drawl, rubbing his stomach a little. “But look here, I’ve got to talk to you, right now. Now can you let me inside because it’s fucking cold out here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beau is aged up slightly in this fic to make her progression to a high ranking agent seem on an appropriate time frame, outside of the world where adventuring gives you easy access to skills and abilities. Thus, she is about the same age as Caleb (late twenties to early thirties).
> 
> Index:
> 
> -The Bowne Occult Society's name comes from the John Bowne House in Queens, the second oldest surviving building in New York City. It is distinguished for being a symbol of religious tolerance, which is why I chose the Bowne Society, in part, to be the more 'tolerant' counter-example to Soltryce College. I used college to denote that it is a smaller school of study within the wider Columbia University.  
> -The crossword puzzle has been around in some form since the mid 1700s, but the modern crossword as we know it was introduced to the New York World in 1913 by a British journalist named Arthur Wynne.


	3. III

Beau looked Fjord over again, as he blew on his fingers impatiently, trying to ease the ever present chill. It had been, what, two or three years since she’d seen him last? He’d come to her trying to get revenge, some former shipmate of his named Sabien, down at the docks. A classic tale of a naive outsider, new to the city and its particular charms, getting caught in over his head. Except, in Fjord’s case, he had been caught up with an eldritch horror named Uk’otoa, not the usual booze or girls. He looked better than he had. He was letting his tusks grow out a little, his hair, though tucked into a tight cap, spilled out a little from under the brim. He seemed stronger, too, more confident. Though maybe that was just because his clothes were nicer.

Fjord was still staring at her, expression becoming slightly more annoyed the longer she just waited. “Are you gonna let me inside, or no? It’s fucking freezing?”

“Can’t I just appreciate seeing an old friend?” Beau asked. “Also, how the hell did you figure out where I live?”

“I’ve got a friend who’s very,” Fjord cast his hand through the air, looking for the words, “talented at the arcane. Good at finding people.”

Beau nodded in realization, letting out a little sigh. “So this isn’t just a social call. Work trouble again? Need me to kick some more kraken people?” 

Fjord grimaced. “Somethin’ like that, I’m ‘fraid.” His head swiveled, searching through the dark street for other figures. He was worried about something, that much was clear. Beau followed suit, her eyes tracing the street from curb to curb. They landed on four men, neatly dressed, standing under a street lamp. They weren’t smoking or anything, just watching. 

Beau swore under her breath. “Fjord, you catch those fellas under the light?” He nodded. “They the people you worried about?” He shook his head. “Fuck.” That meant they were for her. Fuck. She should’ve been more careful leaving the library, not let the cold overwhelm her and make a beeline for her apartment. She still had her notes on the Nebula Magus in her pocket. They could be after that. Or they could just be after her. Either option, the problem could be resolved the same way. The men started to amble towards her and Fjord. 

“Should we go inside, set a trap for them in your apartment?” Fjord asked.

Beau shook her head. “Nah, I just had that place cleaned, and my landlady’s a nice woman, I don’t want to do that to her.”

Fjord, surprisingly, grinned in response. “Excellent.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and Beau felt her tattoo hum slightly, hairs on the back of her neck turning up as a revolver appeared in his hand. Literally, as though he was summoning it from somewhere. Beau remembered that, though the gun did look different. Shinier, less crusty. Less of those weird eyes, too. If she had a little more time, and was a little less hurt, she’d love to spend some time looking at it, properly. She tabled the thought, squaring her fists as the men advanced. Fjord was saying something, but she didn’t hear him as she felt the energy flow through her, from her tattoo down to her fists and feet. 

“Huh?”

Fjord rolled his eyes. “I said, d’you think they’re within 120 feet?”

“Definitely.”

Fjord fired his gun three times, each shot hitting a different man. Instead of bullets, streaks of green, vegetative energy spun from his gun, blazing a hot flash through the air. Two strikes landed, impacting squarely on their chests, burning holes through the jackets of the men, who gritted their teeth, pained, but still advancing. Beau opened her mouth to ask about the change in Fjord’s magic, but again, thought it might not be the best time. 

Beau reached down to her boot, pulling out two thin leather gloves, their seams embedded with some mixture of metal and arcane rooms. She slid them on, cracking her knuckles, feeling the magic activate underneath her fingers. It was hot, almost painful, but the most prominent feeling was her fingers felt as though they were going to fly off if she didn’t punch something. 

The men all produced guns, ducking behind a clunky grocer’s truck to let off shots. Beau dodged one, turning to the side to focus, honing in on the tiny object as it whizzed through space, snapping into sharp relief right as she caught it and hurled it back. There was the sound of a broken window, but no grunt or shout of pain. Immediately, there was a sharp stinging in Beau’s fingertips. Another wound to tend to. She registered a small sound of pain from Fjord, who seemed to be clutching his forearm, red spilling over green, but he gave her a grim nod, and clicked the hammer back on his revolver once more. (They both knew he didn’t need to, but she sort of liked the adherence to human rules.)

And then the men were charging them, feet sinking into the light layer of snow that had started to fall. A gloved hand reached out, grabbed Beau’s throat, and she was lifted half an inch off the ground, hands scrambling for her neck. Up close, there was something more than human about the men. The one in front of her had glowing yellow eyes and the faintest tinge of red to his skin; the one next to him, currently attempting to stab at Fjord with a switchblade, had a pointy tail that kept a regular beat back and forth. Beau’s foot connected with something soft and flabby even as her vision began to fill with dark spots (god, she was tired) and she dug it in deeper, the point of her boot twisting into his sternum. She felt the flow of ki through her toes, and his fingers loosened around her neck as his body seemed to lock in place. She let loose of both her hands, shoving his shoulders hard. The second her hands made contact he was thrown back ten or so feet, shoulders smoking where the lightning had detonated from her fingertips. The burning underneath her hands was lessened. Somewhat.

A crack on her head as the other man, who seemed to almost hover slightly above the ground, smacked the back of her head with some type of lead pipe. She fell to the ground, instinctually throwing her hands back to defend from the next strike. She caught the pipe, using the leverage to flip her assailant on to the ground. She stood, glanced at Fjord. In this time he had subdued one; the other, the man with the knife, was wrapped in some dark vines, and, as she watched, another burst of bright green energy sent him to the ground. She quickly punched the man at her feet, the lightning bursting through his eyes. She winced. That looked brutal.

Golden eyes was coming back for more. She waited until he was just within range, and punched the air. The lightning danced towards him, piercing his abdomen just as his head was taken off by a verdant blast. She turned back to Fjord. The gun had vanished just as quickly as it had emerged. “You really had to steal my kill like that?” 

He shrugged. “You looked overwhelmed.”

Beau flipped him the finger. She surveyed the scene, squatted over the hovering man, who was still floating just a hair off the ground. After pushing off his hat, she could see that his skin was almost translucent, the tone changing with every gust of the wind. “Ashari, probably,” she said, not even realizing she was speaking out loud, fatigue translating her inner monologue outwards. “Your two were tiefling, I think. Can’t figure out golden eyes.” 

“Bit racist, to classify them like this, don’t you think?”

“I need to know for clean up purposes. And to know who we’re dealing with.” Beau glanced up at Fjord. “You sure these weren’t your guys?”

“Never seen them in my life, Beau. Plus, none of them even tried to use magic so… Don’t think they were after me.” Fjord met her eyes. “The hell are you messed up in?”

Beau looked around cautiously. “Let’s get inside. I’ll phone this in. My apartment’s warded from people who may wanna listen in.” 

She slipped the key into the door, which swung open with a creek onto a thin stairwell, lit only by a single gas-burning lantern. They ascended the stairs, up to the fifth floor, to a wooden door with chipped and peeling varnish. A worn and faded card labeled the occupant as “B. Lionett.” Fjord cast a bemused gaze across the entire hallway. “Didn’t figure this for your apartment, Beau.”

“Yeah, well… Non-human landlords don’t particularly like human tenants, and the human ones don’t like my particular brand so I take what I can find.” Beau rummaged through her suit pocket, finally finding, amidst scraps of paper and broken pencils, her key. “Besides, you stay anywhere long enough, it becomes home. Eventually.”

The door swung open. Beau tossed her hat and coat on the rack by the door, gestured for Fjord to place his shoes on a small mat. She walked through her sparsely furnished living room to the tiny, galley-style kitchen, boiling water in a kettle. She opened a battered wooden cupboard above the stove to remove bandages and some rubbing alcohol. There didn’t appear to be any food in the kitchen. As she waited for the water to boil, she set out two tin cups, a little container of sugar, half a bottle of milk, and some coffee. She gestured at the spread to Fjord, who still stood in the entryway to the living room, looking at the couch and low table covered with paper and books in no particular order. “Help yourself to coffee. I’m gonna go change.”

“Do you have any tea?”

Beau looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Who the fuck drinks tea?”

“This new friend I’ve been hanging out with…” 

Beau cut him off. “I don’t care right now, but, no I don’t. If you’re injured, I’ve got stuff to disinfect it and bandages. If you touch any of my case files I will fucking kill you. Any questions?” Fjord just gulped. Beau took that as no. 

She walked into her bedroom and slowly started to peel off the blood-soaked and tattered suit, still taking some care to fold them neatly on the well-made bed. First came the gloves, then suit jacket, suspenders, tie, shirt, pants. Beau surveyed the day’s injuries: the bruises blooming all across her neck and abdomen, the cuts across her thighs and arms, the burns all over her hands. All in all, she’d gotten off easy. She delicately removed the wrap from her calf, wincing as her hands made contact with tender skin. She would have stayed for longer, maybe laid down and taken a nap, but then she heard a clattering from the kitchen, and remembered Fjord. She threw on loose trousers and a shirt and went back into the kitchen.

Fjord had successfully assembled two cups of coffee, though his was significantly lighter and probably sweeter than hers. She took her coffee, the bandages, and the rubbing alcohol to the coffee table, clearing a tiny space free of paper and pencil residue. “Okay,” she said, not looking at Fjord as she began to clean and dress her wounds, “Tell me what’s happening with you.” 

He moved to sit down next to her on the sofa, but, upon realizing there was no space for his coffee on the table, sat down on the floor instead. “As you know, I’m no longer working on The Tide’s Breath. Not a great environment for me.”

“Yeah, nearly getting murdered by your co-worker isn’t really a good thing.”

“Thanks for that, by the way.” Fjord cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m unloading cargo ships at Port Elizabeth now. I’m liking being on land at the moment. But recently, I’ve been feeling…” 

“Is it Uk’otoa again?” 

“I think so.” Fjord rubbed the back of his neck uneasily, taking a quick sip of coffee, immediately recoiling from the heat of the drink. “I’ve been having dreams again.”

Beau quickly went over the case file in her head. Weird dreams, telling him to sabotage certain ships to unlock this beast. Special powers in exchange for deeds done. Happened after Sabien had blown up The Tide’s Breath. It made her think: unlocking Uk’otoa from his underwater cage sounded awfully similar to trying to break the Nebula Magus. Maybe there were some similarities between the two groups. She broke out of her reverie. “Have they been asking you to do anything.”

“More of the same. But I wasn’t getting them on land. I think it’s got something to do… There’s this ship that’s been docked recently for a while. Suspicious captain. Weird cargo. Could be related to Uk’otoa.”

“Or it could be my case,” Beau said, thinking out loud. “You want me to go down to the docks, help you check it out?”

“I have cash, I could pay you.”

“Nah, don’t pay.” Beau took a swig of her drink, then started wrapping her hand, thinking. “You said you’ve got a new friend you’ve been spending time with?” Fjord nodded in assent, a mild blush rising to his cheeks. “That where you got your fancy new powers?” 

“You noticed that?” he said, eyebrows raising in surprise. 

“You used to be sort of sickly. It’s a nice change. That and the hair,” Beau said. Fjord ran a hand through his hair sheepishly, his normal gray streak now extending down to his eyes. “Anyway, this friend… Can he locate people? And objects?”

Fjord nodded again. “I think so.” 

“Great. Okay. Here’s the plan.” Beau leaned forward, looking Fjord directly in the eyes. “I help you with your little problem. Hopefully it ties back to my case. Regardless, I wanna meet this friend of yours. Sound good?”

“Perfectly fine. But, uh, Beau…” Fjord looked out the window at the dark and snowy street, “We’re not gonna do that now, are we? It’s the middle of the night. The ships have been unloading durin’ the day.” 

“Oh, fuck no, we’re not doing that now.” Beau stood, dropping her cup in the sink basin. “I need to sleep. You can crash on the couch if you want.”

“I have my own apartment.”

“Don’t you live out in Brooklyn?”

“Well, yes.” 

Beau tried to raise an eyebrow, but the fatigue just made the motion hurt. “Seems out of the way when we’re heading to Jersey tomorrow. Just crash. Ms Zhang won’t mind.” 

Beau stumbled into her bedroom, the exhaustion hitting her like a wave. She didn’t bother to check whether Fjord was lying on the sofa. She pulled off her clothes, putting on some loose, coarse pajamas, reviewing her notes from the day. The black card she had received from Widogast fell out of her notebook. She inspected it again. ‘Junior Archmage’. A powerful ally, if she needed one. And based on the size of this case, she’d need him.

She didn’t sleep well that night. She woke in fits and started throughout it, convinced that someone was in her room, watching her. Whenever she turned her gaze to the figure, however, it always turned out to be a shadow. She ignored the hair standing up along her neck. That would be a problem for tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quarantine really makes you update stories that you haven't addressed for months, huh?
> 
> Addendum:  
> Port Elizabeth started construction and was opened by 1927 in Newark, New Jersey.  
> Fjord has three eldritch blasts, putting him at roughly where he is in the show, level 11. That's around where Beau is, too.


	4. IV

Beau was tired. Beau was really tired. Deep set, bones aching tired. Like she felt like she wouldn’t be able to move, dodge, punch if she was attacked. And all for nothing. 

It had been five days since Fjord approached her asking for help. Five long days of cheap diner coffee and bacon (from Jersey, too; their coffee was absolutely shit) while she sat outside in the damp cold of the port watching ships sail in. Waiting for the ship that Fjord said had been there all of last week, yet was mysteriously gone the second Beau started staking out the dock. She had been there long enough that the foreman had started to tip his cap when he saw her, ask her about her day. It was clear to anyone with common sense that she wasn’t a sailor, yet she was there every day, coat collar turned up against the mist that rolled in every morning from the Atlantic. She’d seen hundreds of cargo ships rolling in and out of various docking stations, steamers and small fishing boats getting touch ups, tons of cargo loaded in and out of the hulls. 

Nothing matched the description Fjord had given her. Ship: The Squalleater. Pretty dumb name for a cargo ship, but whatever. If it gave the captain joy or whatever. Fjord said she should be looking for a tall, pretty, dark-skinned half-elf named Avantika. Which really, Beau reflected bitterly, didn’t help at all. It seemed like every first mate and deck swabber was a tall, pretty, dark-skinned half-elf. So she’d stayed, at all hours of day, out in the cold, trying to catch some glimmer of a lead.

When she hadn’t been at the dock, Beau had practically locked herself in the special collection at the Cobalt Soul, trying to gain any information on underground magic rings, cults, or ley-line worshipers in the city. As it turns out, there were a lot of them. About 256 different groups, Beau discovered on her first day investigating this connection. She was able to immediately eliminate about half of them by cross referencing the date of creation and their founders' deaths: most had gone extinct by the Revolutionary War. Of the ones that remained, only fifteen seemed actively harmful, but of those fifteen, even, five or so didn’t appear to even be based in New York at the moment. 

One case had caught her attention, if only because she was so aware of it. Two or three years back. Case of a small group worshiping a betrayer god down by Wall Street. A low level agent had apprehended the suspects. A more recent note stuck back into the folds of the case file stated that the Cobalt Soul was aware of one other worshiper, who had recently resurfaced in the city. Beau felt her stomach tighten, in some dual pride and recognition. This had been her case, with Fjord as the enigmatic “informer” at the center. She flipped the case file open. The first thing she saw was not her own cramped but meticulous handwriting. Instead there was a note, scrawled in beautiful cursive across an official document of the agency.

“Agent Beauregard shows great potential,” Beau read. “While her methods may not be orthodox, her intuition and deductive powers are high, and I believe she exhibits many characteristics required to rise high in our ranks. I would like to tap Beauregard for the Expositor path.” Beau’s heart fluttered as her gaze fell to the bottom of the page to see the signature, though on some level she already knew whose name she would find. “Expositor Dairon, Union Square.” Beau placed the paper delicately back into the file, closed it before her tears could sully the page. Focus. This wasn’t the time to be sentimental. 

Memories aside, the fact that this group, the followers of Uk’otoa, showed up on Beau’s list of monitored groups was a good sign. They probably weren’t the group she was looking for, but they could lead her to the next clue. 

Beau would never admit it, but she kinda loved this stuff. The paper pushing. The grinding under the thin gas lamps, not seeing outside light for hours on end. The ink staining her fingers and her cheeks when she went to brush a piece of hair back from her face. Of course, it made her fucking exhausted and probably fucked up her eyes in the process, but it was fun. Of the two types of tedium, Beau vastly preferred dicking around in a library to standing outside in sleet waiting for the tide to roll in. 

Which is where she found herself now. For the fifth day in a row, the bacon-egg-and-cheese feeling especially greasy in her hand. Maybe it was the hurried explanation she had offered Dairon, and managed to scrape by with her position intact (“I trust you and your intuition, Beauregard”). Though she did feel kinda bad about making up why Avantika was so important (“She’s involved with the art gallery that the dude who had the map ran”). 

The foreman of the yard, Wyatt, ambled over. Big man, his family had probably immigrated over one or two generations back, but he still had the remnants of some Scottish accent. He also was definitely half giant, but Beau didn’t even think he knew that. “Miss Beau again. Pleasure.” She gave him a gruff nod, too tired to contort her face into a smile. He beamed in response, leaning in conspiratorially. “Rough night?” He asked, elbowing her a little. 

She shrugged. She’d rather he think she was drinking illegally than just tired and grumpy. “Wyatt, you know a ship called The Squalleater?” 

He furrowed his brow, one hand tugging at the flat cap squeezed onto his head. “I think so, yeah. Came through last week. Haven’t seen them since.” His eyes brightened suddenly. “That’s why you’re always here. You’re looking for them.”

Beau nodded. “Yeah I’ve got an… Old friend on the crew. Real old.” She shifted her tone, becoming brighter, more conversational. “Say, could I check your ledger of ships that came in? Just to make sure I haven’t missed them.” 

“I don’t know,” he said, frowning. “I don’t usually let other people into my ledgers.”

“I just feel like we’ve gotten so close over the week, you know.”

“It’s really a matter of my bosses and the policy of Port Elizabeth.”

“Just one tiny peek.” Beau batted her eyes at Wyatt, a gesture incongruous with her outfit and the rest of her general demeanor. “Please, Wyatt.” He seemed to wilt ever so slightly. 

“I suppose… Just to make sure you haven’t spent all this time and missed your friend.” He ducked into the tiny shed where his office was, a little white wooden shack practically drilled into the dock, and emerged with a large ledger, each page wrapped in some type of leather to prevent moisture from seeping into it. For a brief moment, all Beau could hear was the crinkling of flipped pages. Finally, Wyatt spoke again. “Very sorry, Miss Beau. They have not been here, as you know.”

“Thanks, Wyatt. Good to confirm what you already know.” 

“But I do not think you’ll have to look for long.”

“Huh?” Wyatt gestured with his chin, and Beau spun around to see a massive, clearly coal and diesel-fueled vessel being tied up by the dock boys. On the side of the ship, blazened on the hull, were three eyes, golden and watchful. The captain lept off, lanky and graceful. Beau’s eyes immediately sought Fjord among the dock hands. Through the veil of the Nebula Magus, she could see both images of him: his true half-orc form, glowing an intense angry green in the morning light, and the disguise, that of a black human man, looking anywhere but at her. Avantika. Honestly, if Beau were anywhere else right now, she’d think she was hot. She still did. But that wasn’t the time. 

Beau produced a pair of spectacles from her coat pocket, rubbing them on the inside of her coat a few times before putting them on. Her vision shot across the shipyard, landing on the large shipping containers that Avantika was unloading. Most of them had logos she recognized well: Woolworth’s, Macy’s, Bloomingdale’s. (Not that she could afford any of their wares except a turkey sandwich at Woolworth’s, but that was beside the point.) However, there was one crate that was just marked with an eye, like the ship. And a smaller insignia, towards the corner of one side, invisible unless you were looking for it, of a key inside handcuffs. 

Beau didn’t recognize the symbol. But she did recognize that this was what Avantika desperately needed, otherwise she wouldn’t have marked it with her own insignia. Beau felt her adrenaline spike. The chase was on, and Avantika didn’t even realize it. She tried to catch Fjord’s attention, but he was busy not catching Avantika’s. The dock hands started gesturing at the crate with Avantika’s symbol on it. Time to move fast. 

Beau jogged over towards the ship, pulling her coat and tie off as she went, rolling up her sleeves, undoing her suspenders. By the time she was there, she looked like every other dockhand. She passed the accoutrement subtly to Fjord, before leaning down to grab one end of the crate and pick it up. As she did so, she heard a softly accented voice say, “Stop.”

Beau froze, though she didn’t let go of the crate, raising her head to stare Avantika dead in the eyes. “Did I say you could move that crate?” 

Beau found herself putting on a thicker accent than the one she had. “Couldn’t say, Cap’n. Just tryna get a bit of coin. You understand.”

Avantika’s eyes narrowed as Beau consciously altered her posture, sloping her shoulders forward, bringing her hands in by her sides. Trying to disguise the muscular sinews, make herself as non threatening as possible. Avantika cast her gaze across Beau’s too-nicely pressed shirt, the slightly shiny shoes. “What’s your name, spiffy?”

Fuck. She should have tramped through some mud earlier. The lie came smooth and easy, though. “Tracy. What’s yours, Sheba?”

The loose flirting seemed to catch Avantika off guard. A few of the other dock hands snickered, casting each other looks. A few grimy coins changed hands. Probably betting on how soon Beau would get the lights knocked out of her. Beau looked around casually, pretending as though she was just taking in the reaction of her fellow workers. In reality, she was counting Avantika’s crew. Three at the moment, forming a janky triangle behind Avantika. All definitely armed. She had Fjord on her side, possibly Wyatt in a pinch but Avantika had magic, and who knew about the others. If they were all like Fjord, Beau would be screwed. 

After the tense moment, Avantika laughed. “I’m the captain of this ship, and your superior. That’s all you need to know. Now why are you picking up that crate?”

“We were movin’ boxes. Seemed like it was just the next thing to go.” Beau shoved her left hand into her back pocket. Nope. No gloves. No suit. No extra protection. Just her and her brain, should it come down to a fight.

“And why have you not let go?”

“Doesn’t seem worth my extra effort.” The sound of footsteps in the distance. Wyatt was starting to lumber over. He didn’t know that she was a gumshoe, per se, but he sure as hell knew she wasn’t a dock hand. 

Avantika’s lips pursed into a straight line. Beau shot a glance at Fjord, pointedly looking at his coat, where a firearm would normally be. Fjord nodded, understanding. “Will you look at me?” Avantika snapped. Beau stared back at her. Didn’t say anything. She could feel the tension spreading like molasses, slow and stifling, over the yard. Avantika’s gaze seemed to bore a hole through her chest and she could practically feel it, eating her up. “Drop the box, Tracy,” Avantika said, low and dangerous. 

Fight or flight. Fight or flight. She was faster than most people, but who knows what Avantika could do. She could hear Dairon’s voice in her head, hissing, “Be decisive, Beauregard. Think about the objective.” As much as she liked Fjord, she hadn’t come to fight Avantika. This symbol, the key and handcuffs, though she didn’t recognize it from her research, was important. This is why she was here. Not for revenge, or even for Fjord. Beau dropped the crate, straightened her spine, whipped out, from her pocket, her badge. “Alright, Avantika. Let’s talk. You’re under arrest by the Cobalt Soul for attempting to sow dissent.”

Avantika smiled, far too wide, like a hawk (or sea snake) about to consume its prey. “May I see your badge.”

“Be my guest.” This had to be timed perfectly. She held it out, not tossing it, daring Avantika to step closer. Avantika stepped forward snagging it out of Beau’s hand, holding it mockingly for everyone to see. Then she ripped it in two. Beau bit back a grin. She didn’t need the badge to do her job. Three, two, one: As Avantika moved to break the badge once more Beau hit her once, twice, jabbing with power and precision at her sternum and throat. Instantly, she forced her energy out through her scarred fingertips, and Avantika was frozen in place. Beau yelled, “Fjord,” picked up the crate, and ran.

She sprinted without direction, hurling herself towards the labyrinthian towers of shipping containers and crates, sprawled out on the adjacent dock. There was the crack of thunder behind her, the sound of breaking wood and a panicked shout. Fjord appeared beside her in a puff of smoke, wearing her coat and hat, running as fast as possible. It was clear to her that they wouldn’t be able to maintain this pace for very long. “We need cover,” she managed to get out before peeling down the first side corridor, a spindly little path dominated on both sides by stacks of Chryslers and Studebakers. This path lasted for about 30 feet before it broke into a more open path, where Beau would’ve been crushed by a cart were it not for Fjord’s hand on the back of her collar. They slipped across the path, pausing for breath.

“Should we split up?” Fjord asked. 

Beau shook her head, panting slightly, though she noted that Fjord’s skin had somewhat of a sickly tint from the exertion. “Don’t you… Can’t you do the thing,” she paused for breath, “Create images?” He nodded, but tilted his head, indicating that she should go on. “We hide somewhere, wait for them to come by then-”

“I make an illusion of us running in the opposite direction or something,” Fjord finished. 

Beau snapped her fingers in agreement. “Look, I know I said I’d help you tie up loose ends and all but-”

Fjord cut her off again. “Right now, your case is more important than mine, and you’ve gotta get that crate downtown. I understand. I’ll help you. Helpin’ you is helpin’ me, right?”

“Sorry to seem so brutal. Wait…” Beau placed a hand over her own mouth, and cocked an ear. She could hear shouts, an angry ‘Where are they’ in a voice that was unmistakably Avantika’s. Time to hide.   
They maneuvered through a few more piles of cargo, past chairs and imported hams and a few more cars, to a small almost-clearing among the containers, where three paths converged and then split again. Beau hid them inside an old apple wagon, god only knows why it was there. They waited. Waited. Suddenly, three figures burst forward, the ones Beau recognized from the dock, standing behind Avantika. They spun around, agitated. 

The gnome, short and sallow, holding an equally tiny tommy gun, muttered, “Vera, are you sure this is where they are?”

The middle aged woman nodded in assent, eyes flaring with some arcane energy as she scanned the area. “They’re somewhere here. I don’t know where.” The ogre grunted in displeasure and Beau shivered. She wouldn’t want to be on the other end of the lead pipe clutched in the woman’s hand, though pipe wasn’t an accurate description. It was more like half a lamppost, with a handle slapped on top. 

Beau elbowed Fjord and he concentrated, green energy glowing and covering his body with translucent flowers (flowers?) before evaporating off of him, forming two perfect images of them running from behind the trio down a random path. The gnome and ogre immediately followed. The human woman, Vera (Beau filed that away) did not. Instead, she started murmuring, hands lighting up and drawing an arcane codex in the sky. The words stayed emblazoned before shooting upwards, creating a shimmering web above them. From the tiny pockets in the web fell shards of ice, miniscule, mostly snowflakes at first, before gathering in power. Ice cut into Beau’s cheek, her back, her thighs, but she forced herself to stay still through some sheer power of will. Her mind drifted back, out of body. The adirondacks. The lake. Her training. Dairon. The ice stung, bitter, painful, but Beau didn’t flinch.

Vera frowned, waiting another moment, before pulling out a thin copper wire. Spell components, it must be. Beau screwed her eyes up, trying to remember what spell corresponded to that wire, nudging Fjord to silently question him, but he shook his head, also confused. She stood still for a moment, then nodden, and vanished onto the path, following her crewmates. Beau felt Fjord exhale nearly audibly, and let her own body relax, the pain of the numerous cuts setting in. 

“C’mon,” she said, “let’s move before they realize whatever they’re chasing is just air.” She hoped out of the cart, stumbling a little. That ice must’ve taken more out of her than she realized. She reached back in, helped hoist Fjord out. He looked a bit worse for wear, though he was bigger than her. She was fumbling through the cart, trying to haul the crate out, when she felt it. White hot pain, in the small of her back. Beau let out a surprised cough, a gasp of air and spittle mixed with blood, looking down to find a long dagger jammed through her middle, tip poking out of her stomach

Beau managed to barely twist her head behind her to see the shimmering form of Avantika. Message. That’s what Vera needed the wire for. Avantika had been there the whole time, waiting for them to reveal themselves. Clever. Beau’s vision swirled for a minute, the edges drained of color for a brief moment before it righted itself, and her thoughts focused. Extraction mission. This was what she was good at. Time to extract herself. 

She kicked backwards sloppily. She succeeded at just getting some distance from Avantika, enough for Fjord to shoot three bullets of crackling energy at Avantika, slamming into her chest, sending her reeling backwards into a metal container. The clang reverberated loudly through the area, and when she stood back up, dark, briny magic swirled around her feet, nearly bolting her to the ground. 

Beau was squaring up to face her when she registered footsteps behind her. There was an old crate lid, barely more than a wooden spar lying next to her feet, which she picked up and swung around just in time to deflect a slug from the ogre, winding up for another swing. Beau slid between her legs, jabbing the spar in the back of her kneecaps. The ogre fell, and Beau applied two quick strikes to the back of her neck. It wouldn’t hold her for long, but maybe it would be enough for the time being. 

Scorching hot pebbles embedded themselves into her shins. Bullets from the gnome’s tiny tommy gun. He was reloading, positioned high up on some crates. The next round that came towards her, Beau managed to catch or dodge, hurling them back up, not even looking to see if they hit because then she was sprinting away from the ogre, who had managed to stand. She started to scramble up the side of a tower of containers, cognizant of the dagger still embedded in her abdomen. Taking it out would probably be the end of her. 

The ogre had picked up the entire cart itself. Oh no. Beau climbed faster, digging into some reserve of energy she didn’t realize she had, and scrambled up. The cart crashed into the container below her, clipping her ankle. She howled in agony, hand missing the next hold, and Beau plummeted back to ground. She hit the dirt with a thud, only just managing to catch herself in proper falling form. She cast a glance back to the other side of the lot.

Avantika and Fjord were engaged in some arcane battle, each hurling differently hued green bolts of energy at each other. Neither seemed to really be hitting, though Avantika did seem worse for wear, a long slash across her jaw, her coat scorched. Fjord had obtained partial cover, behind the ruins of the cart that the ogre had thrown, and was firing off shot after shot, each of which appeared to do slightly more damage. 

A line of searing hot flame caught Beau in the shoulder, and she turned to see Vera, hand glowing, face set in malice. Too many enemies. Beau wasn’t made for this. She frantically surveyed the battlefield, gaze landing on the crate with its mysterious symbols, forgotten in the chaos. Remember the objective. Unfortunately, it seemed that they weren’t going to let Beau leave alive. She needed to get them close, where Vera couldn’t cast in fear of hitting her friends, and she could stop that stupid little gun. 

The ogre. Beau charged her, barreling single mindedly across the lot, unattaching her suspenders from her pants. Beau ran through the ogre’s legs again, then out, then back through, using the suspenders to wrap around the ogre’s shins. The gnome yelled out, frustrated that he couldn’t get a clear shot. The ogre swung her arms, angry and confused, and Beau nimbly ducked under each flailing, striking up, her fist meeting a fleshy armpit, stunning the ogre once more. She had partial cover now, from underneath the massive woman, and the rogue was leaping down from the top of the shipping container, knife out. Easy. She caught his wrist, twisting it, and sinking his own knife into his collarbone. Beau caught her breath, expecting some magic to hit her, but Vera had turned her attention to Fjord.

Fjord was now backed against a column, taking hits from Vera left and right, focusing all his firepower on Avantika, who was shooting flame at him almost as covering fire. Fjord stopped firing for a moment, holding out his hand, and the tendrils around Avantika’s feet seemed to drain life from her, refreshing Fjord simultaneously. Then he fired a shot. It was bigger than the others, glowing with something so bright Beau needed to cover her eyes. Avantika’s eyes widened in horror at the exact instant it struck her, piercing directly through her, then exploding. The explosion wasn’t like anything Beau had seen before. It wasn’t violent, exactly. She could smell the sea, and fresh grass, and flowers blooming. Hear the buzz of bees and the beating of a butterfly’s wing. Feel crusty barnacles and reeds underfoot simultaneously. It was almost beautiful. And yet, in the midst of this beauty, Avantika, in the glow of radiant light, seemed to wilt, and wither, and then, as the light faded, collapsed to the ground, dead. 

Vera let out a bloodcurdling scream, but instead of concentrating her magic on Fjord, she turned back to Beau, and let out another line of flame, striking Beau directly where the knife still was buried in her, life leaking out of the wound. Beau grimaced into the pain, pushing herself out of range of the ogre, limping towards the crate. Another burst of flame, and Beau felt one side of her body falter. She could hear the burst of more arcane energy behind her, and could see in her periphery Fjord’s magic hitting an arcane shield, then cracking through it. Vera fell. 

Beau wrapped her arms around the crate, the weight nearly causing her to fall to the floor. Fjord was at her side, arms supporting her. “Beau? Beau! What do you need?”

“Call…” Her vision was spotty, growing darker by the minute. “Cobalt… Cleanup. Don’t let… Need this…” Her legs buckled underneath her. “Caleb… He’ll know…” The ground was cold, yet soft. Beau wrapped in on herself more, shivering. When had it gotten this cold?

“Beau, you need a healer. Beau? Beau!” 

A bright light filled her vision for a moment, then Fjord’s hands were filling her wound with some type of moss. The wound was soothed. But just as quickly as it came, the light went, and then Beau’s vision went dark. Everything was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy long fight scene, Batman!
> 
> Addendum:  
> \- I did a lot of research into cargo ships in the 1920's (I feel a little like Matt researching for that naval battle...) Basically, they were all diesel, because steam-powered, by this point in time, were only used for riverboats.   
> \- Woolworth's, Macy's, and Bloomingdale's were all established in the mid-1870's in New York City along Fifth Avenue, south of Central Park. Woolworth's had a very famous lunch counter.  
> \- Spiffy and Sheba are both slang terms from the 20's. Sheba just means hot lady, essentially.  
> \- The character of Wyatt is a loose riff on the Plank King of Darktow.   
> \- Fjord cast Thunderstep when sprinting away from Avantika.   
> \- Studebaker was a car company started in 1852 that went out of business in 1967. Their cars were pretty cool, y'all should definitely look them up.  
> \- The tiny tommy gun is my riff on a crossbow, for Ipess, the gnome rogue of Avantika's crew. (I used the critical role wiki to gather abilities for each of Avantika's crew: Bouldergut, Vera, Ipess, and Avantika herself.)


	5. V

Beau woke with a start, sweat beading on her brow, hair falling in clumps around her face, pants practically stuck to her legs. The first thing she noticed was the intense stinging in her abdomen, the tight pain of a magically healing wound. The second thing was that someone had very delicately mended and hung all of her clothes on a rack in an open closet across the room from her, and her wound was equally tended to with thick cotton bandages. They didn’t seem the same as the ones the Cobalt Soul used; they were thicker, and smelled natural in some way, as though they had just been torn from a tree. But the most obvious fact was that Beau wasn’t in the Cobalt Soul infirmary. That was a room she was very well acquainted with, but this place couldn’t have been further from that.

Beau assessed her surroundings. Rough hewn stone walls and a wooden roof, weirdly archaic. Two windows, through which streamed an impossible amount of light (she soon discovered the two magically glowing, mushroom-shaped fixtures in the beams of the ceiling). No bookshelves, but plants everywhere; vines and fungi emerging through the cracks in the mortar, weeds poking up through the floorboards, flowerbeds on the windowsills, though even they weren’t tended to or manicured. It almost seemed like they had just sprung up fully formed exactly as they appeared to Beau.

Other than the tiny closet that could barely fit her suit, and the rather comfortable bed Beau found herself in, the room was empty save for a single rocking chair in which Fjord dozed next to a crackling fireplace. Beau calmed instantly, settling back onto the soft pillow that smelled like dried lavender. She inspected her dressings cautiously. They were very well-done, and the wound seemed clean and mostly healed. Her suspicions about the smell were right as well; the fabric of the bandage was made of some type of moss or lichen that had been spun into thread. Kind of ingenious, really. Beau herself was clothed in a long, flowy emerald robe (not really her color, but she was grateful, all things considered).

She tried to lift herself up, to maybe peak out the window, but pain shot through her instantly, blood rushing to her head and the room started to spin. She muttered a little, trying to shift. The sound made Fjord bolt awake, the gun appearing in a flash in his hand, his head spinning frantically around, trying to locate the source of the noise. When he realized it was just Beau, he relaxed, gun vanishing in a similar flash. “Thought you’d never wake up.”

Beau frowned. “How long was I knocked?”

“Day and a half, give or take.”

“Jesus fuck.” Beau sat up immediately, pain be damned, her feet trying to swing themselves out of the bed. “I need to get back to the soul, to Dairon.”

“Beau, relax.” Fjord’s tone was conciliatory as he rushed over to the bed, pushing her gently back onto the bed. “The second we got here, like an hour after the dock, I called Dairon. She-”

“They.”

“They, sorry, took care of everything. Cleaned up the wreck of Avantika. Took the crate into custody. Couldn’t carry you and it.” Beau couldn’t stop the dejected “fuck” that slipped out from her lips. Fjord frowned. “I’m confused. Isn’t that what you wanted? The Cobalt Soul to have whatever Avantika was transporting.”

“Yeah but,” Beau started to force her hair into a more orderly topknot, “Now I’ll have to do so much paperwork to get access to it. I need to crack this case.” She paused, swallowed hard, realized how thirsty she was. “Was Dairon… Did they seem proud?”

Fjord shrugged. “It was over the phone, you know how those things are. Kinda hard to tell.”

“Right. So where the fuck am I?”

“Park Slope.”

Beau’s eyes widened. “How the fuck did you get me all the way to Brooklyn?”

“I’m in tune with water.”

“That’s the vaguest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. This is your house?” Beau looked around again, eyes landing once more on the flowerbed on the windowsill. “Didn’t expect you to have so many plants. Or live in such a spiffy neighborhood.”

Fjord started to say, “Oh, this isn’t my-” when the door swung open, and Beau, not usually one for gawking at other races, had to stare. A firbolg. A real-life firbolg. Impossibly tall and thin, with a dope pink braid, and an incredibly flowery shirt, holding a large teapot and several cups. The only other firbolg Beau had ever met was a lovely woman up in Morningside Heights who’d come to the Cobalt Soul wanting them to find her son, who was just the cutest little kid Beau had seen in awhile. But this firbolg was nothing like Nila, though they both shared a similar welcoming smile. Beau had read, a little back, wasting hours in the library, that there was a small enclave in Brooklyn. This must be one of those.

Beau spun towards Fjord, annoyance flickering behind her eyes. “You neglected to mention that we’re in the middle of Green-Wood Cemetery.” The annoyance faded just as fast as it had emerged. Beau fucking loved Green-Wood Cemetery. The beautifully maintained hills and trees, the secluded walking paths. The section of the Cobalt Soul where she’d trained was close by, the monastery sequestered in the middle of Prospect Park. When she would sneak out, she’d go and drink by Bill the Butcher’s grave. This must be the caretaker’s house then, in what was referred to by those with knowledge of the magical world as The Blooming Grove.

Fjord didn’t answer her query; instead, the firbolg did. With a big, dopey grin, he said, “Yep, that’s where we are. Caduceus Clay, how are you feeling, Miss Beau?”

Beau shifted in the bed, slightly uncomfortable with the amount of exuberance with which Caduceus seemed to say anything. “You patched me up?”

He shrugged modestly. “Well, I try my best.”

She nodded awkwardly. “Thanks for letting me crash here, I guess.” Caduceus set the teapot down on a tiny wicker stand that definitely hadn’t been there a minute ago, pouring the cups and handing one to Fjord. “So you’re the friend that got Fjord here to stop worshiping a sea snake.”

“I didn’t worship anybody,” Fjord spluttered.

Caduceus ignored the outburst, smiling placidly. “From what I understand, you had quite a bit to do with that yourself.”

“Nah, I just punched some fish people. You changed, like, his magic and shit.” Beau didn’t know why she felt weird all of a sudden, her vocabulary reverting to that of a teenager. There was something in the way that Caduceus looked at you that was off-putting. Like he could see all the wheels in your brain turning even if, she suspected, he didn’t really know what those wheels meant.

“I simply illuminated the Wildmother’s path for Mr Fjord here. It was entirely his choice to take it.” Fjord blushed a little at that, nodding gratefully towards Caduceus.

Beau raised an eyebrow. The Wildmother. Now that was interesting. Fjord had managed to hop from an obscure deity to one whose worship, while legal, was not necessarily encouraged. Fascinating. Cad placed a teacup in her hand, and she muttered her thanks while sipping it. It was good, earthy and floral all at once, with almost a hint of… She didn’t really know. Her mom was big into tea, and it had been a long time since Beau had a cup. “That explains the affinity for plants, I guess.”

Caduceus beamed. “We take care of both the living and the dead here in the Blooming Grove.” He sipped his tea, humming slightly, before his nose crinkled in some unsaid question. “Say, Miss Beau, have I seen you before?”

“No, I don’t think so. Would’ve remembered your hair.”

“Why thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Beau’s stomach rumbled underneath the bandages, and Caduceus’s floppy ears pricked up. “You wouldn’t happen to have something to eat, would you?”

“Right this way,” Caduceus said, helping her out of the bed with surprising strength. Beau staggered for a moment, steadying herself on the wall, waiting for the room to stop swirling.

“Can I put on my own clothes first? I love the robe, super comfortable, just… Not really my style.”

Caduceus nodded. “Of course you can. Breakfast will be in the kitchen, just down the hall.” He exited just as serenely as he had entered, Fjord following after, collecting the cup and teapot that Caduceus had forgotten on the ground.

Beau slowly slipped on the stiff shirt, buttoning the collar to methodically tie the tie, hooking the suspenders back on her trousers. She spent a solid five minutes dusting off the shoes with a plant leaf that she then tucked very deliberately back into the windowsill. She had a feeling it would grow back. She paused briefly on her walk to the kitchen to rinse her face and hands in the closet-sized bathroom. She was almost glad there was no mirror, because she probably looked like shit.

The food smelled good. Impossibly good. Sort of funky and vegetative but it also smelled strongly of frying oil and eggs. Beau shuffled into the kitchen, found Fjord perched in a chair nibbling at toast while Caduceus stood over a stove, frying together eggs and mushrooms. That explained the weird smell. Beau’s attention was quickly drawn to the knife standing as almost a centerpiece on the middle of the table. That made sense, of course, considering it was the very knife that had been inside of her, and the edges were still slightly crusted over with dried blood.

Beau picked it up, spinning it round in her fingers. The blade was dangerously sharp, she noted, which had probably made cleaning up her wound much easier. Runes coated both sides of the shiny metal, steel, probably, iron in a pinch. Caduceus’s voice pierced her reverie. “Careful. There’s some type of nasty death magic in that.” He shuddered, disturbed by the very existence of the weapon. “Not natural death magic either,” he continued. “Not like what we do here.”

Beau set the knife back down as Caduceus placed a plate of eggs, mushrooms, and toast in front of her. She dug in greedily, washing it down with some more tea. It was good, nicely salted. More food than she’d had in days, evidently.

“This is delicious, thank you,” Beau said in between bites of food.

“Oh, yeah, it really wasn’t that hard of a thing to do.”

“Still, I appreciate it.” Beau finished her plate, and could already feel the eggs sitting heavily in her stomach. Glanced out of the window, into the thick snowstorm that made visibility impossible. Getting back to Manhattan wouldn’t be pleasant. “I should probably get moving. Gonna be slow going out there. Start analyzing those artifacts, seeing if I can find anything.”

“Oh, don’t go yet,” Caduceus said, stirring another pot of something smelling equally good. “The stew’s just about to be ready.”

Fjord cast a glance out the window. “You’ll be fine out there, Beau. The weather isn’t actually that bad.”

“You kidding me? It’s a blizzard out there.”

“That’s just the Grove acting up again,” Caduceus said. “Something wrong in the magic of the city, and it manifests out here. Just makes caring for the dead a little more difficult.”

“What do you mean, acting up?”

“You know.” Caduceus waved his hands. “Acting up. If you have siblings, you’d know.”

“Only child.” Caduceus cast a look over her, a small skeptical smile in his eyes. “So it just makes the weather here a little worse than elsewhere?”

“Something like that. I don’t know the specifics of how the magic works, but it’s been going on for awhile now. Weather is terrible inside the Grove’s borders, some of our plants die, things like that.”

“Huh.” Beau ran a hand under her jaw, thinking. This could have something to do with disruptions in the Nebula Magus, though she felt confident that if she asked Caduceus about it, he would have no idea what the Nebula Magus even was. “How long is a while for you?”

Caduceus looked blankly at her. “What do you mean?”

“How many years has this been an issue?”

Caduceus let out a small little laugh. “I’m afraid I don’t really see time in that way. But it’s been… since my family left, at least.”

Family, right. Beau remembered from her reading that there was supposed to be a large group of people tending to Green-Wood. But it was clear Caduceus was the only one living here at the moment. The house was only set up for the constant presence of one person, though the amount of teacups drying by the sink basin made it clear Fjord was here regularly. Which would make sense if Caduceus was like his magic teacher or something.

He’d said his name was Clay, right? Beau’s mind unconsciously flew to a history book she had in her apartment, about the Civil War. A big group of Union Clerics had gone down South to help in the war effort and to free slaves. Gettysburg and Antietam. Clerics named Clay had tipped the scales at both those battles. Which meant that Caduceus had been alone for a very long time, but, more importantly for Beau, meant that whatever magickal weirdness was happening in the city had gone on for a long time. That was assuming that the Green-Wood thing was connected with Beau’s search for the Key to the city. But when it came to the arcane, coincidences didn’t exist. Beau would bet her life on the two occurrences being connected. The only question was how.

“Your family’s been gone a long time?”

He nodded, ears drooping slightly. “A very long time.”

“You ever gone out to try and look for them?”

“Someone has to take care of the Grove. It’s not all bad. I wouldn’t have met Mr Fjord here had I left.”

Fjord grinned. “Thanks again for that, Caddy.” Beau rolled her eyes at the nickname.

“Still,” she said, snagging her hat from the corner of the table, “I really should go. Need to get a long day at the office. Thanks for the breakfast. It was swell. Fjord, don’t be a stranger.”

“Take care of yourself, Beau.”

“I always do.” She made eye contact with Caduceus. “If you ever need anything, or even just want someone watch the cemetery for a bit so you can explore the world, give the Cobalt Soul a ring.”

“Oh, I don’t really know how to use the phone here. I think Fjord’s the only number I know.”

“Right. Well, uh… If you need anything, call Fjord, and Fjord’ll lead you to Union Square. Deal?”

Caduceus beamed. “That sounds great.”

Beau gave him an awkward thumbs-up. “Great.” She left as quickly as she could manage, buttoning her coat up against the chill. Now that she was looking for it, she could see that everywhere the fog touched the ground were dead plants. Well, deader than they normally would be in winter. Less dead, more shriveled to barely perceptible versions of themselves. Beau pocketed a hollowed out lily, slipped it between the pages of her notebook. Maybe someone back at the Cobalt Soul was writing a thesis on the degradation of plant life at Green-Wood. It wouldn’t surprise her.

She trudged out of Green-Wood, exiting through the entrance next to Fort Hamilton, walked to the L train, hopped off at Union Square. Said hi to the troll at the elevator, took it all the way up. Speed walked past the gawking Cobalt Soul research assistants right up to Dairon’s door. Barged in without even knocking.

Dairon didn’t look up from the case file in front of them to say, “Beauregard.”

Beau couldn’t get off a salute. She was too full of energy, bristling from the commute. “Where’s the crate?”

“The evidence?”

“Yeah, where is it? What paperwork do I have to fill out to examine it?”

Dairon frowned, finally glancing up. “Beauregard, you’re the leading agent in this case. You don’t need to ask me permission to look at your own evidence.”

Beau finally stopped moving for a moment, pausing on her heels. “Oh. I mean, yeah, I knew that, but I just assumed it was locked up in a lot of security or something.”

“Why would that be?” Dairon looked at Beau with complete bafflement. “It doesn’t seem to even tangentially be related to the key of the city.”

“I know that, Dairon, but,” Beau took off her hat as she spoke, dusting it compulsively, “There’s a connection here. I feel it. You gotta trust my gut, Dairon.”

They sighed, sounding exhausted. “I do, Beauregard. Which is why you should trust that I wouldn’t remove you from this case for nearly getting killed. Now get out of my office and do your job.”

Beau practically sprinted to the basement archives, finding the crate easily enough with the help of an attendant. She popped it open. Inside was a very small figurine, of an angel, its wings wrapped in iron manacles. Huh. Beau examined it. No holes, no runes. She asked the attendant to cast detect magic on it, and nothing registered. No gaps in the porcelain varnish either, suggesting no hidden message buried inside it. She changed light, switching from the electrical lights overhead to a candle, but nothing emerged. There was a small invoice, saying that the figurine was meant to be delivered to J.D.R.J.

Also on the invoice was an insignia Beau knew well. One that made her groan slightly. A symbol was a shuriken, with a geometric pattern in the center. The Myriad. Which meant that, somehow, the biggest name in the criminal underbelly of the city was involved in this. Typical. She should’ve known, really. There was no way there would be a massive conspiracy to potentially destroy the city running smoothly without the Gentleman’s help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Caduceus Clay so goddamn much.
> 
> Addendum:
> 
> \- Green-Wood Cemetery was founded in 1838 as part of the urban expansion of New York City. It's considered the city's first park, as it was built before Prospect Park or Central Park.  
> \- I know that (Spoilers) the Clays are not all dead in canon, but I sort of liked the idea of a massive war bringing them all out of seclusion to try and mend the country. Plus, you KNOW the Clays are BIG abolitionists.


	6. Vi

Beau grabbed a quick bite to eat outside of the office of the Cobalt Soul before walking back to her apartment, eyes constantly scanning her surroundings to make sure no spooks were following her. At least the artifact was secure at the Cobalt Soul. Beau wasn’t gonna make the mistake of walking around with something so small any pickpocket could grab it. She had sketched a passable imitation of the object, and slipped it inside her wallet alongside the invoice. Beau needed to head home before going uptown. She couldn’t go dressed like a flatfoot into Gentleman territory. There could be no trace of Cobalt blue in sight.

Beau decided to go basic. Better to blend in than stand out for her purposes. Brown suit, shirt unbuttoned one button too far down, shiny shoes that matched her belt. Green suspenders and hat, just for the hell of it. She kept her normal granite-colored coat. The temperature had dropped even further as Beau exited her apartment, crossing the thin bottom of Manhattan to hop on the 2 train at 14th street. The further north the train went, the more Beau relaxed. Old white people filtered off, more young and colorfully dressed people came on. Beau tipped her hat to a few pretty women wearing dark coats that were clearly covering short dresses. They giggled, one twirling her hair back in response.

Beau got off at 125th street, trudging west through the center of Harlem. She fucking loved it up here. Maybe when she was older she could afford a nice brownstone up here, get some good soul food. It would be a good place to be an old person. She walked by a group of boys playing stickball in the middle of the thoroughfare, the ball only visible from the lampposts on the corners of the avenue, the stick nothing more than some fallen branch they had gathered from Central Park. Still, they yelled raucously, taunting the opposition as their shouts filled the night air. Further down, on Broadway, a group of men sat on a stoop, noodling around on a few saxes and a beaten up snare drum. When Beau slowed her walk to listen to them, she saw that one of the men, the guy on tenor, had some vague wisps of magic floating off from his saxophone. On every note, the magic swirled up, fluttering into the ears of passersby, and each person halted for a moment, listening to the music before dropping a coin in the open briefcase on the lowest stair. With every coin placed in that case, the magic seemed to shine a little brighter, each coin glowing with the charisma of the musicians. Beau stayed and listened, waiting till they finished the song, applauding before dropping in a dollar, no magical compulsion necessary. They all tipped their hats to her, and Beau winked at the tenor. His eyes glowed magically gold in response.

At Riverside Park, Beau turned north, walking the mile or so up to 142nd street. The lights of the Cotton Club flickered on the water of the Hudson, glittering like stars plucked right out of the sky. As she neared, Beau set her jaw. She always hated that the Gentleman chose to operate out of such a selective institution. Selective meaning that any of those musicians she saw back on 125th could work at the Cotton Club, but if they wanted to buy a drink there, they’d probably be arrested by the rich whites working there. Beau slipped away from the front entrance to the back. This wasn’t even the real club anyway. Bluud was guarding the back door. Through the fog of the Nebula Magus, Beau could see Bluud both as a towering black man wearing an unusually tall top hat, and as the minotaur he actually was.

Beau approached. Bluud nodded at her, but didn’t let her in, continuing to lazily chew and spit out tobacco. Beau didn’t have the automatic entrance to the club she once had. “Evening, Bluud.”

“Beau.”

“I hear the Menagerie Coast has an especially fine shipment of herring this year, though I’m more interested in the cod.”

Bluud stood, his hooves making the ground slightly shake, as he rapped on the door behind him three times. The stone swung open revealing stairs carpeted in red velvet descending into the depths of the earth. “Welcome back to the Lavish Chateau, Beauregard.”

Beau headed down, taking the stairs two at a time, entranced by the strains of ragtime filtering up the stairwell. She had missed the Chateau. She handed her coat and hat off to the man by the door, who opened up the two glass double doors. Beau entered the club. In the far back corner was the familiar stage, where a three-piece water genasi jazz outfit was kicking up a storm. The Chateau got their money’s worth; the bass, piano, and singer were all right with each other, matching the riffs and scales perfectly. In front of the stage was the dance floor, filled with young couples of every race and species practicing their Charleston and Fox-trot in immaculately tailored suits and bedazzled dresses. The Chateau might be the only place where you could see every single species that made up the whole city in one room.

Even further out from the stage, like concentric rings emanating from a single source, were the tables, where more well-to-do looking folks sat, smoking cigars and sipping on expensive cocktails. There was the sound of hushed conversation and serious discussion, a striking contrast to the lively shouts of passion and exertion coming from the dance floor. Servers in long black gowns and crisp dinner jackets shepherded plates of delicately fried morsels from the swinging kitchen door throughout the tables, each one landing to be devoured by the hungry patrons. It was on this level of the club where Beau could see the winding stairs, guarded by a cerulean rope, leading up to the private rooms, where she knew the Gentleman’s office to be.

Finally, closest to where Beau was currently standing, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of the club, was the bar: a beautiful, long, piece of art, carved out of intricately designed marble and obsidian. Blue and gold chairs were studded with seated customers, drinking cheaper drinks than the elaborate concoctions that went to the seated patrons. Beau slid herself onto a stool, grabbed a few peanuts from the glass bowl in the middle of the bar. She waited, entertaining herself by watching the band on stage. They were really quite good. If she hadn’t been on the job she probably would’ve gone to dance, see which pretty young thing she could convince to schlep back to Chinatown.

She didn’t have to wait long. As she was reaching back to snag another peanut (she’d always loved these things) a blue hand grabbed her wrist, and she heard, a sharp whisper in her ear, “We don’t usually let flatfoots in.”

Beau spun around to meet Jester’s violet eyes. It had been some time, but she looked as beautiful as ever: the light freckles dotting her sapphire cheeks, the sharp bob exquisitely maintained around her bejeweled horns. Jester was wearing some low-cut dress that showed off her tattoo, the shimmering hands clasped together on her collarbone. Beau’s lips suddenly got quite dry, and barely got out, “Hey, Jess,” before her voice turned raspy.

Jester dropped Beau’s wrist, crossing her arms. Her eyes dipped down, giving Beau a quick once-over. Beau could have told herself that Jester was seeing how good she looked, but she knew that wasn’t true. She was checking to see if Beau was carrying. Beau laughed a little. “C’mon Jessie,” she said, “You know the only weapons I need are on me at all times.” She held up her fists teasingly.

Jester scoffed in disdain. “I can’t believe Bluud let you in. He knows you’re Cobalt Soul.”

“Even coppers get to relax sometimes.”

“Not at The Gentleman’s club, you don’t.”

Beau glanced around somewhat nervously, lowering her voice to the level of pleading. “I’m not out to get him. In fact, I need to pick his brain about something. Was wondering if you could help me out.”

Jester pursed her lips, and right as she was about to speak again, a very drunk goblin pair stumbled up to the bar. “Two beers,” the man slurred.

Jester’s demeanor shifted immediately, the defensiveness dropping away to become bubbly and sweet. “You got it, mister. You know,” she said, filling up two tall pints with some frothy beer, “You really shouldn’t drink too much, especially if you want to have a little fun later, know what I’m saying?” She winked exaggeratedly as she passed the beers down over the bar, the man giving her a five. He didn’t ask for change, stumbling off, largely supported by the woman, and Jester tucked the five inside her cleavage. Beau pretended she hadn’t been looking. “What do you want to drink?” Jester asked, not making eye contact with Beau.

“I’m on the job.”

“You don’t want to look like a fucking stoolie, do you?”

“No, guess not.” Beau took out a quarter. “The strongest and cheapest thing that’ll buy me.”

Jester grinned, a little of that old light Beau used to see all the time coming back onto her face. “There’s the Beau I know.” Jester worked quickly, mixing together the whiskey, vermouth, and bitters, slicing and twisting the orange peel. She made eye contact with Beau as she skewered the cherry, dropped it into a glass, and slided the Manhattan over the counter.

Beau took a sip of the drink, grimacing slightly she felt the warmth in her chest, replaced by the bittersweet aftertaste. “It’s good. Thanks.” When she glanced back up again from her cocktail, she saw Jester staring at her with an undecipherable expression, somewhere halfway between anger and grief. “What?”

“Why did you come back here, Beau? You know if he or, or, Tori sees you, you’re dead.”

“I told you.” Beau took a swig. “I’ve got to ask him some questions.”

“He’s not going to see you.”

“Even if you ask him?”

Jester gave her a little smile. “Even if I ask him that’s not going to change his mind. You left the right to come in here when you left the Myriad.”

Beau laughed sardonically. “Plenty of people leave the Myriad and come back to the Chateau, Jessie. Hell, you’re just the boss’s daughter, you’re not even a part of it.”

“Yeah, but they don’t leave a gang to join the fucking police, Beau!”

“Keep your voice down,” Beau hissed, eyes darting side to side quickly. “The Cobalt Soul’s not police, you know that.”

“Yeah, but you do, like, basically the same thing.”

Beau rolled her eyes. “There’s a huge difference between what we say we do and we actually do. As much as we want to remain impartial, money’s money. Your dad comes down to Union Square, we’ll sure as hell finish some gang war for the right price.”

A busboy dropped a stack of cups in front of Jester, and she started drying them furiously. Neither one of them said anything for a long moment as Jester polished the glassware and Beau sipped her drink, listening to the band tinker away at some sad song about a long lost love. Beau finally spoke. “I wish you’d be more careful, Jessie.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jester kept her face neutral, but there was the hint of a smile in her words, as though she had Beau figured out. Which, of course, she did. Jester always had, even way back when they were stupid kids running around selling pilfered bottles of wine and stealing smokes.

“The graffitti. Come on. Rodeph Sh0lom, really? You know the Soul keeps watch over the place like it’s Fort Knox.” Rodeph Sholom was a synagogue on the Upper West Side that also happened to, for the magical denizens of the city, be a central temple to Ioun. The Cobalt Soul was actively looking for the vandal that had painted dicks all over the Ark.

The smile had emerged, clear and radiant, like a small arcane jolt to Beau’s heart. “That didn’t stop me. And, Beau,” Jester looked over at her from underneath fluttering eyelashes, “Are you keeping tabs on me?”

“Just trying to make sure you don’t get caught. Would be hell for your god if his only disciple was thrown into Sing Sing.”

Jester laughed. “Do you like me, Beau?” she said, half-singing the words.

Beau could only laugh, looking down at her mysteriously empty glass. “You don’t need me to answer that for you, Jessie.”

Jester leaned over the counter, running her hand under Beau’s chin, lifting her head lightly so that they were making eye contact. “You’re still cute. And I’ll think about it.”

“About what?” Beau was finding it very difficult to think about anything at all. Damnit, she could hear Dairon in her head yelling at her about being unable to get over a childhood infatuation.

“About being more careful. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize my dad’s business. And he’ll be happy you’re still looking out for him.”

“Sure. That’s what I’m doing.” Beau extricated herself from Jester’s grasp, pausing to breathe for a second, seeing if there were any charms to shake off. There wasn’t any magic that she could feel acting on her. Which meant that her sense of imbalance was just jester. Careful, Beauregard. Beau pulled out the drawing of the statue from her coat pocket. She left the actual invoice folded inside the pages, and slid the sketch across the bar to Jester. “Have you seen this before?”

“Wow, Beau, your drawing has really improved! The shading is really good!”

“Um, thanks- that wasn’t the question, Jester.”

Jester pouted. “You know, I was just trying to give you a compliment-”

“And that was very nice of you, but I want to know if you’ve seen it.”

Jester leaned in closer. “Well… Not the statue specifically, but the design looks like this broach one of our regulars wears.” Jester produced a cocktail napkin from behind the bar, and a pencil from god knows where. She sketched quickly, spinning the result around to show Beau. Beau’s stomach dropped. A key within manacles, though Jester’s skill at drawing showed how the top of the key had some delicate filigree to look like two angel wings. Jester was frowning down at the two sketches. “I don’t know, though, they look pretty different now that I’m seeing them next to each other.”

“No, they’re perfect,” Beau blurted out.

Jester looked suspiciously at Beau. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No, I’m serious, Jessie.” Beau grabbed both of Jester’s hands. “It’s perfect. Really.” She probably held on to Jester’s hands for a second too long before she dropped them to pick up the drawings. “Who wears the broach?”

“This woman named Yasha, you would love her, Beau.” Jester beamed as she recounted how big and strong and sexy and confident but also quiet Yasha was, while Beau took mental notes, editing out Jester’s asides. Yasha was tall, Aasimar, tighty coiffed black hair that faded into white, always wearing black. The pondering of how Yasha would look with a sword aside, Jester gave a very good description.

“Thanks, Jester. So much. Has she been in today?”

“No, she hasn’t come in a couple of days. But her friend is in.” Jester gestured with her head at a corner booth, wreathed so thickly with smoke that Beau couldn’t even see if someone was sitting there or not. As Beau looked, the rope moved, and the Ruby of the Sea emerged from her room up top to join the genasi trio for her song of the night. She surveyed the crowd, making eye contact with Beau all the way at the opposite end of the room.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Jester sounded legitimately concerned.

“I think your mom just saw me. I imagine she’ll alert the guards, who won’t really take kindly to my presence.”

Jester waved her hand. “Please. Mama loves you.”

The Ruby of the Sea lowered her head towards the microphone, and Beau held her breath as she began to speak. “Thank you so much for being here tonight,” Marion said, her eyes locked on Beau even now. “This song is for an old friend. My apologies to those folks on the dance floor; it’s a little slower.” Without any further ado she broke into “St Louis Blues” as her voice coated the room like honey. There was no motion from the gangsters surrounding the room towards Beau.

She relaxed back on the stool, feeling the soft brush of Jester’s hair by her ear . Beau sucked in air unconsciously as Jester said, “See? Mama loves you.” Beau turned, meeting Jester’s glittery eyes. Jester moved further without even missing a beat, mouth staying by Beau’s ear to whisper, “Did you wear the green suspenders just for me?”

A hint of a smile curled around Beau’s lips. Maybe it was the warmth from the drink finally kicking in, but she whispered back, “Do you like them?”

The silence stretched out between them, like silk pulled to its breaking point, the Ruby of the Sea crooning in the background. Jester broke it, with a clear, high laugh. “Oh, Beau,” she said, “I like everything you wear. Though you look best in blue.”

“Didn’t wanna be clocked for a copper. But you caught me the second I walked in.”

“Of course I did.”

“So,” Beau said, hand playing with one of her suspenders, “Would you talk to your old man? See if he can make a second for little ole Beau?”

“I wish I could but… You know he’s stubborn.” Beau’s free hand reached into her pocket, pulling out the grimy casino chip she’d kept in her apartment for such an occasion and had barely remembered to take with her to the Chateau. She slammed it onto the counter, and Jester’s sapphire skin turned a touch paler. “You’re joking, Beau.”

“I’m cashing in my oldest chip. Literally. I think that thing’s like fifteen fucking years old or some shit.” Her eyes searched Jester’s. “C’mon. Now you have to help me. I have no cards left.”

Jester waited a moment before picking the chip up, spinning it around in her fingers. “I’ll talk to him. But don’t get your hopes up. Odds are, he kicks you out the second I mention your name.”

“Thank you, Jessie.” Beau took Jester’s hand, squeezed it. Jester leaned down and kissed Beau lightly on the lips. Electricity shot through Beau’s body. It wasn’t a kiss of promise, or of happiness, or joy. It was a kiss that clearly said Jester thought she’d never see Beau again. Which was fair. The Gentleman had promised to kill Beau if she ever stepped back into his club, and he hated not fulfilling a promise. Jester headed upstairs, and Beau watched what could possibly be her last musical performance. God, she was a fucking idiot. She could have sent any other cop to do this, contacted Nott, anything. Instead she did it on her own. Good fucking job, Beauregard.

At least she didn’t have to wait long. Within ten minutes of Jester vanishing upstairs, she reemerged, along with three imposing bodyguards. Jester’s face was at a neutral again, which, for her, meant something terrible. Jester pointed towards Beau, and Beau swiftly collected the sketches, slipping them into her jacket pocket. The men surrounded her. She affected a slanted grin. “Are we gonna have a problem, boys?”

They didn’t smile back. The biggest one took one step forward, and was about to say something when Jester pushed through. “You have to go. Now.”

“Yeah, Jess, kinda picked up on that message myself.” Beau turned, started walking to the door. Felt Jester’s hand on her shoulder, and she went to grab it, but the hand shoved her instead. She sped up her walking, grabbing her coat and hat from the guy by the door. Took the stairs two at a time, not looking back. She didn’t want to see who was coming after her. The door swung open by itself, a gust of cold wind blowing into her face.

She was halfway to the local 1 train stop when she heard Jester’s voice in her head. “Hey, Beau! Dad’s not mad, he actually wants to talk to you, isn’t that so cool? One a.m., at Grant’s tomb. Anyway, aren’t you glad-” The message cut out.

Beau cleared her throat, trying to ignore the confusion bubbling up in her brain. “Right. Okay um… I guess I’ll see him at one. And you too, maybe. Right. Okay. Bye.” Beau checked her watch. Quarter past eleven. What was she gonna do for nearly two hours?

She ended up ambling down Broadway, stopping for a cup of coffee and a slice of cheesecake at a diner in the mid-130’s. The slight buzz of the cocktail had gone, leaving her with a mild headache. Nothing that caffeine and sugar couldn’t fix. Besides, diners didn’t care how long you stayed so long as you paid for your coffee. Beau took out her notebook, tried to collect her thoughts.

It felt like she was just chasing leads, without any direction. So far she had, in order: a missing key to all the magic in the city, a cult trying to raise an eldritch being from the deep, and a mysterious order that really liked chains, and the only thing connecting them was her intuition that there was something connecting them. So, basically, she had nothing.

Facts. Root herself in facts. Okay. Fact number one: the key was stolen one week ago, with magic powerful enough to disrupt the Nebula Magus. The key itself unlocked what was probably a reservoir of magic underneath the city that, when accessed, could completely destroy the wall keeping the non-magical and magical worlds from meeting. Fact two: the thieves disguised this theft with a temporary blip in the Nebula Magus elsewhere. Maybe… Beau drummed her pen onto the table. She would need to head back to the archives, cross reference other blips of similar varieties. This plan had taken a long time to execute, and when dealing with magical creatures, “a long time” could mean hundreds of years. Maybe they had stolen other things in the past, as a trial run for the key.

That was pretty much all she knew at this juncture, which was sparse. Fact three: there was some organization whose insignia was a key in shackles, but also sometimes an angel. And they were involved with the Gentleman, which was enough to make Beau suspicious. Add in the involvement of Avantika’s cult, and maybe the chain gang (fun name, she thought) was the group she was after. It couldn’t hurt to at least ask a research assistant to look into groups involved with angels and chains throughout the city.

Fact four: if this Yasha woman had something to do with the chain gang, she had something to do with the theft. From Jester’s description, it sounded like she was a fighter. Which would make apprehending her slightly difficult, but Beau was nothing if not up to the task. It would be hard to do the tailing on her at the same time as Beau was doing the research. She scribbled down ‘Nott’ in big letters. The only criminal contact who still trusted Beau enough to follow a suspect for her and not ask questions. That just meant Beau would need to buy a significant supply of moonshine to pay Nott for her work which meant… Ugh. Beau groaned, taking a long swig of the burnt diner coffee. She’d need to go to Molly for the moonshine.

Having sorted those two logistics back down, Beau wrote her final two thoughts. First, she needed to figure out why they needed this key and what they were intending to use it for. Motive, at least, would be easier to ascertain than the second point: where the fuck was it, anyway?

Satisfied, Beau finished her cake, dropping a few coins on the table as she headed back into the night. She was at Grant’s Tomb, on Riverside and 122, by 12:57, watching the fireflies dance in the darkness. If she really squinted, she could see some stars up above. The moons were nowhere to be found. It was rare that both Catha and Ruidus would be dark, but it did happen, occasionally. Beau’s dad would have said this meant it would be a dark time for the world, but Beau didn’t believe in that superstitious shit.

A car streaked down Riverside, squeaking to a stop next to a Beau. Bluud exited from the driver’s seat, Jester from the passenger’s side. Beau stiffened. She wished she had brought anything Cobalt Soul with her except her badge. She felt the need to be in uniform for this, she thought, as the Gentleman emerged from the backseat. He was dressed sharply, in a black pin-striped suit, a single blue lily tucked into his lapel. He held a glittering silver cane, and his face was obscured by his long dark hair.

“So,” he said, eyes boring holes into Beau’s chest, “You wanted to speak with me? Here I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addendum:
> 
> \- Harlem in the 1920's is just a really fascinating time for me. It's the Harlem Renaissance, this time of impossible growth for black artists, at the same time as hate groups like the KKK experienced this rebirth. It's a really interesting dichotomy.  
> \- The Cotton Club is emblematic of this. It was open from 1923 to 1940, and served to jumpstart the careers of many black artists who worked there, such as Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and Billie Holliday. However, it was also extremely segregated, and the famous artists who performed there were not allowed to be customers there.  
> -Rodeph Shalom is a congregation founded in 1842. The building on the Upper West Side, at 82nd street between Central Park West and Columbus avenue, was built in 1929, but is such a pretty building, I had to include it.  
> -Sing Sing Correctional facility was founded in 1826, and was named after the indigenous word "Sinck Sinck" meaning stone on stone. Sing Sing was notably where a lot of gangsters were imprisoned during the 20's.  
> \- St Louis Blues is an old standard from 1919 that's been covered by nearly anyone. The lyrics have to do with the deep love that the singer feels for her man (or woman) that will never go away, no matter how long they're apart.  
> -Grant's Tomb was built in 1897 as the final resting place for Ulysses S Grant and his wife, Julia. It is across the street from Riverside Church.


	7. VII

Beau swallowed, shifting her weight from side to side while trying to remain calm, poised. She jammed her hands in her pockets so they wouldn’t notice her fingers looping around themselves, trying to settle. “I’m a bit surprised you’re meeting with me, to be honest.”

The Gentleman rolled his eyes. “So am I, Beauregard.” His eyes lazily scanned the surrounding area. Beau followed suit. “Let’s walk in, shall we? We’re a little exposed here on the street.”

They started off towards the Hudson, strolling down on one of the winding paths that traversed the length of Riverside Park. Bluud did not follow, staying by the car. Beau was flanked by the Gentleman and Jester. She wondered if they were planning on executing her. It was almost picturesque, with all the lights from the city gleaming in the dark waters of the Hudson, mirrored by the slightly less brilliant lights coming from New Jersey across the river. The brightest source of light was not either bank, however. Shining like a ray straight from the sun was the construction site of the George Washington Bridge, several miles north on the river. Spotlights shot up from where the foundations of the bridge were being constructed, and even from 60 or so blocks away, Beau could hear the shouts of workmen and the clang of steel.

“I thought Jester said you had questions, Beauregard.”

“I do.”

“Speak up. I don’t have all night.”

Beau cleared her throat, removed the sketch of the brooch that Jester had drawn. “Seen this before?”

The Gentleman squinted at the drawing, before sighing and retrieving a matchbox. He lit one matchstick, holding it close enough to illuminate the sketch without burning the paper. He took it in, then shook the match out, tossing it into the well-manicured bushes next to the footpath. “Yes. I have.”

“Where have you seen it?”

“Come on, Beau,” Jester interjected, “I already told you that-”

“Shush, Jester,” the Gentleman said. “On one of my patrons.”

Beau tried to keep a hint of annoyance out of her voice. The Gentleman was messing with her, being coy to try and get something out of her. But what could he want? “Could you name the patron?”

The Gentleman smiled a thin-lipped smile that never met his eyes. Or she assumed. She couldn’t really see his face. Stupid fucking humans and her stupid lack of darkvision. “I’m afraid I need to keep the identity of my patrons safe from prying coppers.”

“You know I’m not trying to arrest anyone for violation of the Volstead Act. I’ve got better things to do.”

“Such as?” So that was the game. He wanted to pry her case out of her. Two can play at coy.

“Maintaining the order between the magical and non-magical.”

“And here I thought you just caught criminals.”

Beau grinned, though it was closer to a grimace. “A common misconception. Though,” she pulled her badge out, toying with it, “That can be arranged if you want, Mr Dosal.” The Gentleman and Jester both blanched at the use of his real name. It was a bold move from Beau, to be sure, but he seemed affected enough by it to work.

The Gentleman stopped his stroll. “Is that a threat, Miss Lionett?” His cane struck the ground solidly, and a slight magical ripple followed the strike. Beau cast a glance towards Jester, raised an eyebrow incredulously. Jester blushed, annoyed, and looked away. She seemed pissed Beau had caught the slight use of thaumaturgy to make the Gentleman seem intimidating.

“It can be whatever you want it to be.” Beau crossed her arms, leaning against a lamppost. “But the Cobalt Soul doesn’t wish to cross the Myriad. You know as well as I do that both of our organizations are integral to the health of this fine city.”

“You speak so fancy now, Beau,” Jester blurted out.

Beau winked. “Amazing what a bit of book learning can do for you.”

The Gentleman sighed, as though he was already bored by this interaction. “You’re right, Expositor.” He managed to load every syllable of the word with disdain. “So what do you propose? You can’t expect me to give up one of my own for free.”

“This woman is a member of the Myriad?”

The Gentleman grinned, his sharp canines glinting. “When did I ever say my patron was a woman?”

Beau was getting tired of this game. “Jester told me.”

The Gentleman turned his head to look disapprovingly at his daughter. “I hope you didn’t offer that information without getting something in return.”

Jester lifted her chin defiantly, though she looked towards Beau, not her father. “I got plenty.”

“Good.” He turned back to Beauregard. “So what do you know?”

Beau shrugged. “Not much. Jester said her name’s Yasha, she’s a regular. Wears this broach. Was wondering if you knew what it meant.”

“Maybe I do. What’s in it for us?”

“What do you want?”

The Gentleman burst out laughing for a brief moment, the sound cutting through the still air. “Oh, Beauregard,” he said, still chuckling slightly, “You drove a much harder bargain when you worked for me. I do believe you’ve lost some of your touch.”

“Maybe the Cobalt Soul just taught me that there are more efficient ways of getting what I want than torture.”

“But you were so good at it, Beau,” Jester murmured, an implied threat and promise in her words.

Beau cast a small, private smile in Jester's direction. “Never as good as you, Jessie.”

“I want a month’s immunity from raids. NYPD and Cobalt Soul.”

Beau raised her eyebrows. Who knew how many backdoor arms, moonshine, and money could be funneled through the Gentleman’s clubs in one month without the constant threat of raids? It would be a tough deal to get Dairon to sign off on. “A week.”

The Gentleman scoffed. “A week? That’s nothing compared to the information I’m about to give you.”

Beau raised her eyebrows, challenging him. “If it’s good, two weeks. That’s the most I’ll get the higher ups to agree to.”

“Two weeks is, like, no time,” Jester pleaded, after sharing a glance with her father. She took Beau’s hand gently. “You sure we can’t get you to give us just a little longer?”

“You’re resourceful. I trust you’ll manage with whatever I give you.” Beau removed her hand from Jester’s to cross her arms and look back at the Gentleman. “Do we have a deal? A week if I think the intel is shit, two if it’s genuinely as good as you say it is.”

Jester and the Gentleman shared a glance that Beau was sure was actually some magically aided conversation. Finally, after what felt like an interminable wait that made Beau remember just how cold it was out here, Jester nodded. “We have a deal.”

“Good. Now spill.”

The Gentleman started walking again, all the way down to the edge of the riverwalk. Beau followed, impatient. It was already 1:30, and she had to get to Molly’s before it closed at dawn. The Gentleman settled, sitting on a bench next to the river. After a moment, Beau joined him, and Jester followed suit, all three staring across the hamlets of New Jersey, and, further north, the dense woods of the Palisades.

The Gentleman began to speak. “Her name is Yasha Nydoorin. She started coming into the Chateau about three or four weeks back. Quickly became a regular. Tall, dark hair, white on the ends. Very pale. Interesting tattoos.” He drew a line vertically on his chin. “Like that.”

“Does she come alone or with friends?”

“Usually alone. Friends once or twice. One was a male drow. Cheap looking suit, nice cigar. Other was a female… Also drow. Red hair.”

Beau’s brow furrowed. “Drow? North of Times Square? That’s strange.”

The Gentleman shrugged languidly, pulling out a thin cigarette case, placing one to dangle from between his lips. He offered it to Beau, who shook her head. “Business is business.”

“Did you get names from either of the friends?” He shook his head, lighting and taking a long puff off of the cigarette. Beau switched tactics. “And the organization? The key with the manacles. What’s that about?”

“Some type of religious group. Very doomsday. They hang about the public library on 125th street sometimes.”

Beau gritted her teeth. “Do they have a name? A specific deity they follow?”

“Never caught it-”

“The Angel of Irons,” Jester interrupted. Beau gave her a curious look, and Jester demurely took a drag off the cigarette that seemed to have appeared in her hand. “People like to talk to me. It’s why I’m a good bartender, you know.”

“The Angel of Irons. I’ve never heard of them before. And I’ve memorized a lot of religious groups.” Beau was almost positive she hadn’t seen the group in her ledger of dangerous religious organizations in the city. Which meant she was back to square one in terms of actual research she would have to do. “So,” she focused her attention on Jester, “If you got her to talk, what did she say about the group?”

“Just that, you know, they’re very cool, very snazzy. Really interested in magic, she said she could definitely tell that I was very magically talented, which was very flattering, you know?” Jester was rambling in the way that only Jester could ramble. “But when I mentioned that I already had a god who was the super coolest and I wasn’t that into theft-”

“Wait, she’s into theft?” Beau tried to contain her excitement.

Jester blinked a few times. “Yeah! Obviously, I used to really like stealing things, but that was such childish behavior, with you and me and Nott, you know? And I didn’t think she would like that because she was so big and had really fat hands, not that great for pick-pocketing at all, but I guess people are full of surprises.”

“Did she say she had stolen anything recently?”

Jester scrunched her face together in a way that Beau recognized meant she was thinking really intently. “Not that I remember,” she said after a moment. Beau deflated until Jester spoke again. “She was really into keys, though.”

Beau nodded a few times, head spinning. She needed to talk to Nott as soon as possible, and then bury herself in books to try and figure out who the hell is the Angel of Irons. But catching Nott meant a well-timed bottle of hooch and something shiny, and Beau was fresh out of the good stuff. Which meant catching Molly. Which meant extracting herself from this situation without suffering undo bodily harm.

Beau stood. “Right. Well… Thank you both. This has been very helpful.” She turned to the Gentleman. “I’ll talk to them about the two week suspension of raids. Don’t hold out hope for any more time. Thank you for your time.”

She started to walk back up the path towards Riverside Drive, but was interrupted by the Gentleman’s voice. “Beauregard?” She cocked her head slightly, but didn’t say anything in response, waiting for the inevitable threat. “I will only let you do this once. You show up at my club without rejoining the Myriad again, and I’ll dump you in the Hudson wearing concrete shoes. Get my gist?”

“Not hard to miss,” she called back. She waited for another second, for Jester’s voice, and dared a glance back. Jester was pointedly staring out over the water as she smoked, not looking at Beau. Beau resigned herself to that. Whatever. She needed to book it, anyway.

She hopped in a cab on Broadway. It was too late, and she didn’t have enough time to try and take the subway to the east side. She kept waiting, sitting in the back of that grimy taxi, to hear Jester’s voice in her head, asking her out for a drink, or some sweet diner pancakes. But there was no echo-y message in her head, none of Jester’s mysteriously bubbly accent resounding in her skull.

She disembarked at 60th and 3rd, and collected herself for a moment, fixing the hat and coat. She should’ve prepared for this, brought some floral tie or fun accent piece. Molly would give her so much shit for the plain outfit. Realizing that no amount of straightening her attire would do her any good, Beau squared her shoulders, and entered Fletching and Moondrop apothecary.

She was amazed, honestly, that the place didn’t get raided more often. What type of apothecary was open all hours of day? Sure, the exterior looked harmless enough: the ornate gold script on immaculately frosted windows, the clean oak counter, the rows of sweets, not a gumdrop out of place on the back wall. Cans of soda sat chilling in icy containers, and the shelves were neatly stocked with all types of rubbing alcohol, bandages, and beauty products. Gustav Fletching lounged behind the counter, reading yesterday’s paper, his pharmacist’s coat a little more disheveled than usual, though the sleeves were neatly rolled up to his elbows. His hair was just curling over his pointy, half-elf ears. Beau liked Fletching. He did well as the respectable part of the establishment.

Beau grabbed a tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a few cotton bandages- it never hurt to have extra- and Fletching looked up as she approached the counter. “Evening, Beau.”

“Fletching.” She dumped the goods on the counter, and fished out two quarters.

“Rather late for you to just be buying normal goods,” he said with a casual grin, handing her back a dime in change.

She nodded towards the door to the basement stockroom, neatly covered with a shimmery purple curtain at the moment. “He in?”

“Of course. Though it’s awful late. Might not have what you need.”

She gave him a tired smile, shoving her first aid supplies into one of her spacious interior pockets on her coat. “I need what’s cheapest and available.”

Fletching clicked the latch, opening the counter, and Beau stepped through. “Then he’ll have what you need,” he said, pulling back the curtain, and Beau walked through the door, not even bothering to try and turn the handle.

She hated walking through illusory things. It was this strange sensation of getting submerged in water, but not water, exactly, because it didn’t feel wet. It was like the air changed consistency for a few seconds in a manner that was generally unpleasant and made her neck tingle. As the wall melted away, Beau was standing in a gaudily decorated, for lack of a better term, opium den. Cushions in reds, purples, and golds dotted the ground where people lay, imbibing Molly’s magical concoctions. The walls were finely dressed in rich tapestries. She didn’t want to know how Molly came to possess them. At the back of the room, there was a beaded curtain, and through that curtain sat a tiny table, where Molly held court. Currently, he was reading some spacy Upper East Sider’s fortune, shuffling tarot cards with the ease of someone who knew how to make a quick buck. Beau hovered outside of the curtain, waiting till he was done with the woman to shimmy through the beads. She grimaced as she slid down into the chair opposite Molly.

He looked better than when she had seen him last, that was for sure. He was back in his tapestry, that he claimed he had acquired in the Orient, but Beau knew he had gotten it made by some Jews in Crown Heights. Regardless, he looked fabulous. The red silk just made his purple skin shine even brighter, and he had new jewels and ornaments studding his curved horns. He had gotten a few new tattoos, too, and they shimmered like gem dust in his skin. He was putting some type of oil in his hair to make it shine.

He beamed at her from across the table, scarred delicate fingers shuffling the deck in quick, practiced motions. “Hey, dick.”

“Hey, asshole,” she said gruffly, even as she was unable to stop a smile from creeping onto her face.

“Now, because you’re the worst, I’m going to assume you’re here to buy my subpar liquor, and not engage in my excellent fortune-telling skills?”

She flapped her hands through the air with a smirk. “You got me. Did you see that in your cards?”

“No,” he said, stopping his shuffling of the cards to look her in the eyes. “I’m just fluent in gruff asshole cop.”

“I’m not a cop!”

He gave her outfit a scathing once-over with his eyes, tail flicking back and forth. “Please. I’ve never seen anyone who looked more like a cop, and I’m including those beat boys who keep taking me in for dealing. And they were wearing uniforms.”

Beau crossed her arms, sinking a little lower in the chair. “I thought I blended in.”

Molly laughed. “Darling, if you wanted to blend in, you’d at least wear something floral.”

“I actually did think that, but it was too late.”

“Better late than never.” He tucked the deck of cards in a little drawer in the table. “So, what can I do for you? Are you just getting strictly hooch? Because I just got this shipment of skein and it does incredible things for you.”

“Fun as that sounds, just hooch.”

He sighed dramatically. “You were really so much more fun back when you were a criminal.”

Beau smiled tightly, looking towards the floor, eyes getting lost in the geometric pattern of the carpet. “That’s what I keep hearing tonight.”

“Oh, darling.” Molly reached across the table, grabbing her hand. The numerous rings and bangles covering his fingers and wrist were absurdly cold. “I know that look. That look says I just saw Jester and am sad about it, which is confusing, considering our friend the Gent has threatened to kill you several times.”

Beau shook his hand off, trying to look anywhere but at Molly. He had this annoying ability to break through her walls, and she knew that if she actually made eye contact with him, she might start crying, from the combination of emotional baggage and exhaustion. That wasn’t something she needed in the middle of an investigation. “It doesn’t matter how. Say… You’re connected in circles that I can’t necessarily access anymore. Heard anything about a woman named Yasha?”

Something dangerous flickered in Molly’s eyes for a minute, then was gone, replaced by whatever usually inhabited them, some mixture of recklessness and warmth. “Why do you want to know?”

“A case I’m working on. I’m trying to find her. That’s why I’m here.”

“I haven’t seen Yasha recently. She’s not here.”

Beau paused. So Molly knew her. Intimately. She could play it off as ignorance, maybe get more information out of him. “I didn’t think she was.” That danger flickered in Molly’s eyes again; so he knew he’d said too much, too fast. “I’m buying hooch to pay Nott, see if she can tail this dame for a bit when I hit the books.”

The immediate relief in Molly’s eyes was palpable and concerning, though it was quickly replaced by teasing. “I always knew you were a closet intellectual.”

She could tease back. “I haven’t been in the closet about anything in a long time, Molly.”

“Touche. So, what do you need?”

“Three bottles of whatever you’ve got. You know she’s not picky and I’m willing to spend…” Beau rifled through her wallet, counting the money, and either the cab or subway home, “6.25.”

Molly whistled. It was not appreciative. “Not giving me much to work with, are you?”

“Hey, blame my government paycheck, not me.”

“Fed.”

“Whiskey runner.” They both laughed. Molly reached behind him, pulled a pillow off a trap door, vanished into the floor for a moment. He returned with three tall coke bottles, the labels sealed on to dissuade any cops from sniffing it too carefully. She took them, shoved them all into her coat pockets. Molly looked incredulously on. Beau had to admit, the holding capacity of this coat was sort of ridiculous.

“Sure I can’t read your fortune?” he asked.

“You know I don’t believe in that.”

“Right, yes, the filial trauma of religious parents, I forgot.” He waved his hands around in a pseudo-parody of a country preacher.

“It’s not in my head,” Beau argued, leaning in. Molly’s face positively radiated joy, and Beau had to smile back even as she yelled at him. They both got kicks out of riling the other up. “You know this. My dad made some deal with a witch just so he wouldn’t have to pay off Bill the Butcher.”

“Sounds like you’re just as superstitious as he was, darling, you just believe the opposite things,” Molly said with a sly grin.

Beau shook her head at him, biting back a sharp retort. “I won’t even give you the satisfaction.”

“You already did, love.”

Beau stood, annoyed. “This is why I don’t see you that often.”

“Really? I thought it was just because your new job prevents you from doing fun, interesting things, and interacting with fun, interesting people like yours truly.” Molly paused for comedic effect. “Or just doing drugs, I don’t really know.”

Beau sighed, then tipped her cap at Molly. She took a few steps in the direction of the door, then paused, turning back. “Yasha Nydoorin? Is she trouble?” Molly sucked in his breath, his hands automatically withdrawing the tarot deck from its hiding place. He started dealing cards, frowning at each one he turned over. Beau asked again.

His eyes scanned the cards he had pulled furiously. “I knew her. A long time ago. She was in trouble then. The cards say she’s in trouble now.”

“Seems like it to me. But I think she’s the problem. Is that what your fucking cards say?”

He shook his head, biting down on his lip nervously. “Hard to say. She’s either a victim… Or the one causing the storm that’s to come. But the cards won’t say which one she is.” He looked up, and Beau had never seen Molly this serious before. “I’d be careful with her, Beau. For your sake.” He held up the card, a beautiful rendition of a tornado sucking people into its swirling vortex of death. “You don’t want to get caught up in the storm.”

Beau left Molly’s, and took a cab. She was rattled by the reading, even if she felt it was nonsense. Though it might just have been the time. She stumbled up the steps to her apartment right as the clock hit 3:30, and passed out on her couch, knowing the sun would wake her up in a few hours.

It did. Which was fine with her. She changed quickly, splashing freezing cold water over her face, before donning her suit. She felt more like herself in it. She left her walk-up half an hour after the sun had risen, buying a penny coffee and donut from a cart at the corner of her block before walking north, out of Chinatown and towards Washington Square Park. Nott would be there bright and early, and this might be the only time to catch her.

Nott liked to hang around the park in the early hours of the morning, picking the pockets of the wealthy NYU students who were too hungover and tired to notice their wallets were suddenly considerably lighter. There were also plenty of people sleeping a night off on the grounds who would just chock up their missing cash to a night they could barely remember. It wasn’t anything like her old racket; this new gig was a lot safer. Which Beau approved of. The old job had made Nott cross the path of some rich hedge fund kid who’d put that curse on her, though, of course, that was long before Beau had known her. Nott may have looked like a child, but she was far more put together than Beau was, and both of them knew it.

In retrospect, Beau thought as she trudged up Broadway, the wind pushing directly into her, Nott had absolutely been the mom of their trio: making sure no one got caught, everyone was home on time, that Jester didn’t vandalize the wrong building. While she had participated in a fair bit of the chaos, she had largely reined them in, and made Beau feel like she had been the sane one.

Beau turned left on University place, and entered the park from the east side, eyes peeled. It was almost too easy, though everyone becomes predictable if you watch them for long enough. And she had spent a large part of her life watching Nott. There she was, a little goblin figure scurrying from unconscious body to unconscious body, cash disappearing into the numerous pockets of an oddly bright yellow dress. Beau sidled in that general direction, coughed loudly. Nott spun around and yelped, and Beau barely managed to jump out of the way of a crossbow bolt that impaled itself on the tree next to her.

“What the hell, Nott?” Beau hissed.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The crossbow had been slid back into whatever holster Nott kept it in. Seriously, in this day and age, who used a crossbow. Nott didn’t actually, for the record, look very sorry. “I just saw the suit and I panicked and you do look like a stoolie.”

“Everyone fucking thinks I’m a cop-”

“Well, you are-”

“That’s not all I do! I’m still fun! I still have friends and drink illegal alcohol!”

Nott took a step back, hands defensively raised. “Woah, woah, woah, I think you’re projecting some things I never said.”

“Well you implied-”

“I just said that, objectively, your job is solving crimes. Which makes you a cop.”

Beau crossed her arms, kicked the ground. A little clod of dirt was unmoored from the earth, but didn’t move anywhere. It took three or four more kicks for it to finally fly through the air, and, by then, it had been so much effort it wasn’t even satisfying. “Fine, I guess,” she muttered.

Nott finally broke out into a smile. “It’s good to see you! It’s been, what, a year now? You don’t call, you don’t write…”

Beau frowned. “Didn’t know your tenement had a phone.”

“Well it doesn’t, but the point still stands.” Nott started to walk away from her victims, towards the fountain at the center of Washington Square Park. “So, you need my brain on another one of your cases, right?”

“Less your brain and more your body.”

Nott looked up at Beau, golden eyes narrowed into slits. “I knew you were only friends with me for my body!”

Beau grimaced. “No, that’s not what I-”

“Beau’s in it for one thing and one thing only, and that’s-”

“Shut up!” Beau’s face was bright red, a feat to do with her complexion but Nott could somehow always make her blush.

The golden eyes were back to their normal grin, pointy teeth out. “I’m joking, Beau!”

“Right…”

“I swear, sometimes you’re very naive.” Nott sat on the edge of the fountain, and took a little piece of bread out, starting to feed the pigeons, though some were just as big as her. A spectral hand floated out from Nott, tearing a chunk of bread, and hurling it away, sending a big fleet of pigeons to fight over a tiny morsel.

Beau watched the show. “That’s new.” She gestured towards the mage hand, now just hovering. Beau had a feeling it was going to slap her sometime within the next ten minutes.

Nott grinned again, though she seemed genuinely happy. “I’ve met a man, Beau.”

Beau frowned. “You’re married.”

“Not like that, get your mind out of the gutter!” The spectral hand slapped Beau. She felt nothing, but made a little sound just because she knew it would make Nott happy. Nott sighed, looking off into the middle distance. “I’m a happily married woman, Beau, but this man is so kind and lovely and he’s teaching me magic and working on undoing my curse…” She sighed once more.

Beau’s eyebrows raised. “Undoing your curse? He must be really powerful.”

“He’s very talented, though he still has a lot to learn. It’s been wonderful to see him grow, I feel very proud.”

“I’m happy for you. Genuinely.”

“Thank you, Beau.” Nott turned to her, the bread gone, and she nudged Beau, elbow coming in to tap at Beau’s bottom ribs because of the size difference. “So what do you need my help with?”

“I need you to tail someone. Normally I’d do it, but I also need to do research at the same time, and I trust you to do my job more than some Cobalt Soul nerd.”

Nott nodded sagely, ears curling in a little. “That makes sense. I’m very trustworthy.”

“Here, this is important.” Beau ripped out a page of her notebook with Yasha’s physical description and handed it to Nott. “She’ll be at the Lavish Chateau tonight. I just want you to follow her until she does anything, and call me. Don’t interact. Call me if you figure out where she lives, too.”

“How do you feel about mental messages?”

Beau shrugged, slightly confused. “Can you do that?”

“One of the new spells I know.”

“Great, fine.” Beau produced the three Coke bottles of moonshine. “Payment.” She was surprised when Nott shook her head. ”Wow. You really are a new Nott.”

Nott looked off again. “If my friend really can change me back, I’ve got to stop eventually.”

“What can I give you, then? I’d offer money, but,” Beau laughed, “You’re definitely richer than I am.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Nott agreed. “Look, you know I love money and all but… Consider this a favor. I’m sure I’ll ask you to do something life-threatening to repay it soon.”

Beau blinked, surprised by Nott’s uncharacteristic generosity. “Um… Thank you.” She looked down at the bottles. “Don’t know what I’ll do with this hooch, it was kinda expensive.”

Nott waved a hand dismissively. “Save it for a rainy day. Or today. You look terrible, by the way, have you been sleeping?”

“You know I never sleep when I’m working. I’ll hit the hay soon. When the job’s done.”

“You make it sound so dour.”

Beau looked at her, sizing her up. The new temperment certainly explained the new dress, as well as the freshly made braids. Nott looked nice. She wasn’t the same goblin who had nearly shanked a teenager in a prison cell for a little bit of food years ago. “Have you seen Yeza recently?”

Nott shook her head, immediately crestfallen. “I don’t want to get his hopes up. Luc’s either. They know I’m alive, and that I want to see them. That’s all that matters.”

Beau thought for a second, before saying, “I could visit them, if you want. They know I know you. Just say that you’re working really hard to get home to them. I’m told reputable people actually trust the word of an Expositor.”

Nott blinked very emphatically a few times. Beau knew she was trying not to cry. That was okay; Beau did the same thing. “I would like that very much, Beau.”

“Consider that my payment, then.” Beau stood from her perch. “Keep me posted, Nott, the best detective.”

“See you around, Henry David Thoreau-regard.”

Beau left chuckling and shaking her head at that stupid nickname. She checked her watch. 7:15. If she got to the office now, she could catch a couple of hours of sleep before the archive opened at seven. Time to get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addendum:
> 
> \- The George Washington Bridge (GWB) started construction in 1927, and was completed in 1930.  
> \- The Volstead Act was the act that sealed Prohibition into law, beginning in 1920.  
> \- There is a branch of the New York Public Library on 125th street in Harlem. It is right next to the Church of Scientology. I just find that really funny.  
> -William Poole, also known as Bill the Butcher, was the leader of the Bowery Boys gang in New York in the mid 19th century. He is buried at Green-Wood Cemetery.


	8. VIII

Beau awoke to hear a banging on her office door, and she swung her feet off the desk, groggily readjusting her tie. She had taken a quick power nap in her office, though calling it an office was a bit of a stretch. It was more of a closet that someone had tried to shove a desk and chair into. Those two pieces of furniture took up ninety percent of the space of the room; the rest was covered in loose paper and the remnants of cups of coffee and pastries. Beau had locked her door, curling up in the seat with her feet on the desk to try and get some rest. And now someone was, very angrily, knocking on her door. She yelled out, “Just a minute,” and, in the tiny compact mirror she took from her drawer, quickly tied her hair back up in a fresh knot and buttoned her jacket. 

She opened the door. A gnome, wearing the traditional sweater vest and tie of the research department, stood, face screwed up intently behind his glasses. “Expositor Lionett?” He said her name as though her very existence was an inconvenience to him. 

“Yeah?” she said, rubbing her eyes wearily. She didn’t even have the energy to correct him and say she preferred the use of her first name. 

He shoved a scroll that, even bound up, was longer than his entire body into her hands. “Summons from High Curator Yudala Fon, Archivists Zeenoth and Jennah, and Expositor Dairon, for Expositor Lionett.” 

Beau’s eyes nearly leaped out of their sockets as she unfurled the scroll, scanning through its contents quickly. Meeting at 9:30 on the top floor to discuss Beau’s progress on the case. Shit. Fuck. Beau’s breath quickened slightly, and she checked her watch. 9:15. Extra shit. She inhaled and exhaled in quick succession, thinking of the Catskills. The shimmering lakes, the expanses of blue. Her breathing slowed just as quickly as it had sped up. “Right. What’s your name?”

“Historian Brithwick,” he said stiffly, clearly confused by the display of nerves Beau had just shown. 

“Great. Nice to meet you. Can you get anything in the archives relating to this insignia,” she produced the sketch of the brooch, “or a group called the Angel of Irons? Just leave it on my desk for when I get back.”

He peered into her cramped office, eyes surveying the messy state. “Are you sure you want to receive valuable historical documents in this space instead of in a study carrel?”

Beau threw her hands up in the air, annoyed with all the questions, her mind praying that the elevator would be running normally. “Do I look like I have a preference?” She started heading down the hall, past the similarly closet-like offices of the other junior expositors. She hit the call button for the elevator. Brithwick was still standing at her office, displeased. “Actually,” she called back down the hall as the elevator grate opened up, “If you could deliver them to a private reading room, that would be fantastic.” She didn’t hear the response as she stepped into the elevator, though she could see Brithwick was mouthing something under his breath. God, the nerds this place attracted. 

She showed the scroll to the troll at the elevator, who grunted, pressing a few buttons, and the elevator shot up, so fast she nearly lost whatever food remained in her from the night before. After half a second, the doors flew open. 

Beau had never been to the top floor. Hardly anyone who wasn’t a High Curator of x-branch or some head researcher had been up there. It was beautiful: high, swooping ceilings of pale blue stone, ornate gilding over engravings of the Tomes of the Knowing Mistress. Pixies flew up and around overhead, vanishing into tiny pipes that ran the length of the building, delivering messages to all of the various departments. The floor was checkered in black and white marble, and two half-orcs guarded ornate wooden doors that stretched the height of the wall. Beau approached them hesitantly, offering her best smile that said she was just a lowly detective. 

“Hey, fellas,” she said casually, noticing their hands immediately dropping to the inside of their coats, where they surely were carrying weapons. She also saw both had sigils of Ioun on chains around their necks. Clerics, then. “Easy, easy, no need to get rowdy.” She showed them the scroll. “I’m here for a meeting with High Curator Yudala Fon?”

Silently, both half-orcs opened the doors, their other hands never leaving their guns. Beau entered what was clearly a waiting room of some kind, a small, wood-panelled room with a few armchairs scattered around. A fire burned merrily in the corner, no wood or charcoal in sight. Dairon was seated in a dark green armchair, a thick black book in their hands. When Beau got closer, she realized they were reading Crime and Punishment. 

“Subtle,” Beau said, sitting down in a small red armchair across from Dairon. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d be in the office and receive the message,” Dairon said, not looking up from their novel. “I thought we’d have to summon you from the streets.”

“Just barely made it. I don’t think historian Brithwick likes me very much.”

“No, I can’t imagine he does.” Dairon turned a page languidly. “So,” they said, “You have not met the High Curator before?”

“Nope. Should I be scared?”

“Yes.”

“Geez.” Beau stared into the fire. They kind of freaked her out, honestly, burning without fuel. She didn’t understand how it crackled and produced embers. Obviously, it was magic, but still. It just made her feel uneasy. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not especially. I do not anticipate this will be a pleasant meeting for anyone involved.”

“Why?” Beau leaned forward, pressing her clasped hands down on her knees. “Is the Cobalt Soul not pleased with my performance?”

“I think we’re all a little confused about what you spend your time doing.”

“I’m being patient, taking my time. Like you taught me.” Beau slumped back in her chair. “Trying not to jump into anything unprepared.”

“I think they’d like a few more results, Beauregard. Or at least some idea of how you are planning to retrieve the key.”

Beau crossed her arms angrily, eyes flashing in slight anger. Dairon didn’t register that anything was off, or, if they did, they didn’t care. “For your information,” Beau hissed, “I’ve got plenty of leads. None of my suspects have done anything yet.” 

Dairon looked up, briefly, flashing Beau a quick smile that was unexpected and went by so quickly Beau thought she had imagined it. “I would expect nothing less, Beauregard.” Beau was going to say something, but they were both interrupted by the tapestry at the far wall shifting and shimmering in place before vanishing, revealing a small, plain door that creaked open. Dairon set aside their book and adjusted their jacket briefly, giving Beau’s outfit a look, and quickly retying Beau’s tie. “Don’t want to look unprofessional.”

Beau stood up a little straighter as she followed Dairon into Yudala Fon’s office. She didn’t know what she was expecting. Something overly decorated and ridiculous, perhaps. Certainly not the austere quarters she entered, even more barren than Dairon’s office. Did that happen to you the longer you spent at the Cobalt Soul? Maybe more knowledge meant you just valued material objects less and less. The only thing Yudala Fon had in their office was a desk, lacking any sort of object or even paper and pens, and four chairs arranged in front of the desk. It was a spacious office, with lots of light shining in from large windows with great views of the city, but they seemed fine with just letting the space exist. 

Yudala Fon was dressed plainly, in just a steel grey suit and blue waistcoat. A pin with a golden eye sat sharply on their lapel. They didn’t acknowledge Beau or Dairon as they entered the office, taking two chairs. Beau took her hat off, slid it underneath her chair. They all waited in tense silence, that was broken with the hasty arrival of Zeenoth, wearing a remarkably rumpled suit, carrying a tower of paper with him that he dropped at his feet. Zeenoth offered curt nods towards Dairon and Yudala Fon, but did not acknowledge Beau’s presence. That was fine. A few minutes later, Archivist Jennah entered, long white hair pulled tightly up. 

“So,” Yudala Fon said, staring directly at Beau, “let’s begin.” Beau shifted uncomfortably in her chair as everyone else in the room turned their gazes towards her. 

“Where can I start?” 

Yudala Fon crossed their hands over their desk. “What leads do you currently have on the location of the key?”

Beau looked down. “No idea about location yet, High Curator.”

Their jaw tightened as their eyes seemed to bore into Beau’s soul, hair practically glowing in barely contained annoyance. “I see. Suspects, then?”

“I can speak to that. Our main suspects are a fringe religious group who appear to follow a deity known as the Angel of Irons. Currently, I have a tail on the only identified member of the group, Yasha Nydoorin.” Beau could hear the furious scribbling of pen on paper after she said Yasha’s name coming from Zeenoth’s direction, and, sure enough, he had somehow produced a thick stack of paper on which he was writing. 

“Who do you have tailing her?”

Beau shared a glance with Dairon, silently trying to convey the vague illegality of her contacts. Dairon seemed oblivious to the hint of desperation in her eyes. “An acquaintance of mine who is unaffiliated with the Cobalt Soul, but who I trust absolutely.” 

Jennah scoffed, crossing and uncrossing her legs with a sneer. “A criminal contact, then? Helping on the most important mission the Cobalt Soul has ever taken on?”

“I also think that is unwise,” piped in Zeenoth, though the looks of disdain he received were greater than the one Jennah had cast towards Beau.

“Respectfully, High Curator,” Dairon began, “when I assigned this mission to Expositor Beauregard I authorized her to utilize whatever criminal contacts she felt were appropriate, and I trust her to be judicious in who she brings in to the fold.”

Yudala Fon nodded, considering the various stances. “Who is this contact, Expositor?”

“A goblin named Nott.” Beau waited for the snickers to pass from the Archivists. “She and I were very close when I was affiliated with the Myriad, though she isn’t part of any organization. She has said that she will relay important information about Nydoorin’s comings and goings to me each night.” Okay, so maybe Nott hadn’t, but Beau could smell the blood in the water. The Cobalt Soul was fighting to take her off this case, and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to fight to stay on. “In addition, I’ll be notified when Nydoorin leaves her apartment, it’ll give me an opportunity to search the establishment.”

“I presume,” Zeenoth said, his voice sounding reedier than usual, “that you won’t be getting a warrant for that?”

“The extremity of the situation supersedes normal operating procedure, correct?” Dairon turned their gaze to Yudala Fon, who nodded in agreement. Dairon smiled, turning back to Zeenoth. “As we have discussed previously, Zeenoth, this is a delicate situation. Again, I trust Beauregard to be discrete.” 

“This Angel of Irons.” Yudala Fon’s voice cut through the bickering, and they all fell silent once more. “What does this group want?”

“Unclear at this juncture. That’s why I’m here, instead of tailing the suspect in question. As of right now, the Cobalt Soul hasn’t had any literature on the subject. I was hoping a day in the archives would remedy that. If not, I have contacts in the Bowne Society who might be willing to help me.”

“So you have nothing?” Jennah asked. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“I’ve got instinct,” Beau snapped. “Which is a hell of a lot better than nothing.” She could feel Dairon’s foot kick the back of her shin as a warning, but she was tired, and mad at the prospect of the physical harm she had endured being for nothing. “I followed a suspect, a follower of another fringe religious organization, down at the docks for around a week. While she herself was not involved, she was transporting an object marked with the symbol of this group. A symbol that features a key and shackles. Now if that doesn’t seem suspicious to you, Jennah,” the Archivist winced at being called out, “then you’re just not a very good detective.”

There was silence for a few more moments, as Beau regretted lashing out, and Jennah seemed taken aback by Beau’s impertinence. Yudala Fon just seemed aggravated. Dairon and Zeenoth, however, both just shared a knowing glance, both being well-acquainted, it would seem, with Beau’s outbursts.

Finally, Yudala Fon spoke again. “Well said, Expositor. That does seem… Suspicious, though I wish we had a little more information with which to work with.”

Beau smiled tiredly. “So do I, High Curator, so do I.” 

Dairon cleared their throat. “High Curator, forgive my boldness, but we all know we are not here merely to discuss the advancement of the case, though I thank Beauregard for her work and report.” They gave Beau another reassuring kick in the calf, that from anyone else would’ve been a personal affront, but, from Dairon, was a sign of confidence. “I think it does everyone a disservice to pretend that this meeting was anything other than deciding whether to take Beauregard off the case.”

Yudala Fon dipped their head in acknowledgement. “You are correct, Dairon. That was the purpose of this meeting.”

“And have you come to a decision?” Zeenoth asked. 

“I have. Beauregard-”

“Actually, can I say something?” The words flew out of Beau’s mouth before she could stop them, and everyone around her looked deeply confused. Beau was too. She didn’t know what had happened, other than that she felt confident Yudala Fon was about to remove her from the case, and that couldn’t happen. “Look, obviously, I could’ve done more in this first week and a half. I get that. But this case isn’t easy to crack, and it’s not going to get solved in a week. Anyone who thought that would be the case is kidding themselves.” She risked a glance over at Jennah and Zeenoth, both of whom had turned delicate shades of scarlet. “Look, I think I have the only angle forward here. This is a subtle group, who’s been planning this for a long, long time. The only way to do this is by using as few official channels as possible, and I think I’m the only person with a high enough ranking in the Cobalt Soul who’s still connected to the clubs and the opium dens and the Myriad.”

Jennah cut in. “I thought the Myriad had a death contract on your head?”

Beau gave her a piercing glare. “Clearly not,” she said as calmly as possible, “considering I was in the Lavish Chateau yesterday, and here I am.” She focused her words on Yudala Fon. “I have a feeling that we’re on the right track, and sure, it’s just intuition, but I’ve never really been wrong before. Dairon can vouch for that.”

Dairon gave a curt nod. “It’s true. Beauregard may be headstrong and impulsive-”

“Hey!”

“But she has never been wrong on a hunch. And she follows through with good, often patient, detective work. That’s why we made her an Expositor. That is why I assigned her this case. Of course,” they waved their hand, “if you do not trust my judgement, High Curator, that is its own concern. But I see no reason to throw her off the case because she has not produced results yet. Just because it is an important case does not mean we should be impatient in finding the culprit.”

Yudala Fon hummed in agreement, drumming their long, slender fingers on the top of the desk, deep in thought. “Zeenoth? Jennah? Both of you were adamant that Beauregard should not be allowed to continue.” Beau’s head swiveled towards the two Archivists, who were both actively looking downwards to avoid Yudala Fon’s eyes. Beau could have punched them, but she focused on her breathing, trying not to give in to the impression they both clearly had of her. “What do you think after hearing this testimony from Expositors Beauregard and Dairon?” 

There was a long pause as the Archivists traded quick glances, shifting abruptly and awkwardly in their seats, as though there were hot coals stuck in their chairs. Zeenoth spoke up, leaning forward, speaking uncharacteristically soft. “With all respect to our friends the Expositors, we have a different perspective on the matter. While they might be focused on motive, and the people involved, we believe all that is necessary is obtaining the Key to the City. I think no one Expositor ought to be working on this case.” He was gaining enthusiasm and passion as he spoke. “While Beauregard is certainly interested in the matter, what we need are wizards and clerics casting spell after spell trying to find this key. This Nydoorin woman offers a valuable way to access it.” 

“There are protections to scrying and location spells,” Beau retorted. “There aren’t protections from old-fashioned spycraft. Also,” she leaned forward as well, joining Zeenoth in the position of pleading with the High Curator, “Who’s to say that they’re not planning something else? We should be trying to figure out their motives so they don’t have the opportunity to create more chaos in the city, which they could if we just grabbed the Key and let them off the hook.”

Yudala Fon held up a hand before anyone else could interject, stopping Jennah and Dairon from joining in the fray. “Enough. I have heard all that I need to hear.” She fixed her gaze firmly on all of them. “Beauregard will continue working this case, with the help of her contacts from the criminal elements of the city. I think that friend in the Bowne Society will be helpful as well. We will be careful. We want to have evidence against all parties of this religious group, if they are the culprits, before we act, so that no element remains to be alive and commits more crimes. In the coming days, Beauregard, I expect to gain further knowledge of this group, is this understood?”

Beau nodded, tapping the flat brim of her hat. “Completely, High Curator. I believe I should have a stack of texts waiting for me in a reading room as we speak.”

They smiled slightly. “Very good, Expositor. Archivists Jennah and Zeenoth, you are free to go.” The Archivists stood up, gathering their things, and Yudala Fon waved a hand towards Zeenoth’s stack of documents. “Don’t forget to bring your clutter, Zeenoth.”

“Of course, High Curator,” he muttered, gathering them clumsily in his arms, dropping a few pieces of paper with every stack he managed to collect. After an uncomfortably long period of this dropping and collecting, Zeenoth and Jennah hurried out of the room, murmuring furious sentences to each other about the importance of research and patience. Yudala Fon watched them go with obvious amusement, their demeanor relaxing. They even leaned back in their chair, unbuttoning their jacket. 

“What else do you require?” Dairon asked. 

Any ease that had come to them was gone in an instant, and they were back to being steely-eyed. “Dairon, you have possession of that statue Beauregard found, correct?”

“Yes. It’s currently in my office.”

“Make sure it’s hidden and warded by someone you trust. Tell no one but the people in this room where it is.”

Beau frowned. “Why’s that important? Wouldn’t it be safer in the vaults in the basement?”

They sighed. “Earlier this week, there was a mild disturbance in our alarms. Nothing was successfully taken but… It appears the target was the statue. How did they know it was there?”

“A mole,” Beau said, her brain working overtime already. A spy, inside the Cobalt Soul, working with this group. That was a terrifying prospect. 

“Exactly,” Yudala Fon said. “Not that I don’t trust the Archivists but… The fewer people know, the better. We’ve been examining the artifact, and while there doesn’t seem to have any magic in it, it could just be religiously important. Regardless, if it belongs to this group-”

“It does,” Beau interjected.

Dairon completed the thought. “If it belongs to this group, then they’ll come looking for it no matter what. So we should be prepared for that eventuality.”

Yudala Fon nodded grimly. “Anything is possible.” There was a sound at the door, and a little pixie flew under the crack between the door and the floor and flew in, a tiny scroll curled up in its mouth. Yudala Fon read it quickly, then scrawled an equally tiny message, and the pixie flew back out. “I believe that’s all,” they said, pulling out a thin file that, though Beau could see the pages, was written in some language she didn’t know. “I trust we’ll know something new soon. Good day.”

With that, Beau and Dairon left the office, Beau feeling as though she had aged years from the stress of the room, while Dairon seemed exactly the same. Beau was about to punch the elevator button, when Dairon proposed they take the stairs, at least down to their office. Beau’s destination, the reading rooms, were on one of the lower floors of the Cobalt Soul. Beau shrugged in assent, and they took the bare, stone spiralling staircase that seemed to wind on forever down.

As they walked, Dairon spoke. “I thought getting your blood flowing would make you a little less stressed. You’ll be able to focus more on your reading.” They glanced back at Beau following them down. “Is it working?”

Beau shook her head. “I feel like I could’ve had a heart attack and been more calm.”

Dairon laughed. “You’ll get used to it, Beauregard.”

“I hope I never have to experience that again.”

Another laugh echoed off the featureless walls. “If you’re even half the detective I think you are, you’ll be sitting through quite a lot of those.”

Beau let half a smile slip onto her face. “You think so?”

“I know so. You’re the only person I trust to fill my spot as Head Expositor.”

“This isn’t your retirement speech, is it, Dairon?”

“Please.” They shot a wicked grin back at Beau. “I’ve still got plenty of years left in me.”

“Good. I don’t feel like replacing you just yet.”

“Still. It’s good to know what you’ll be getting into. Eventually. There’s some time, don’t worry.”

Beau scoffed. “Me? Worry? That’s ridiculous, Dairon.” She stopped for a brief moment, head pounding, then continued on again, because Dairon was maintaining this absurd pace. “You might be right. About the whole, ‘blood flowing, focus better’. Feel like I could read some dumb historian’s thesis and understand it right about now.”

“That was the idea, Beauregard.” They went on a little longer quietly, only the sounds of their heightened breathing and feet slapping the stone stairs. The occasional curse from one of the two of them as they stumbled cut through the monotony. Eventually, Dairon stopped at a door, opened it, revealing the hallway to their office. How Dairon had known that this unmarked door was theirs, Beau couldn’t say. She would be catching the elevator down to the reading. Dairon turned back to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know I preach patience, Beauregard, but… I trust you. And you know better than to run headlong into danger.”

“Well…” 

“Or you should, at least.” They gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “But if you need to make a call between patience and boldness, now is the time in the investigation for boldness. Understand?”

Beau grinned a little. “I think so.”

“Good. And remember,” their hand gripped her shoulder even tighter, “don’t die, Beauregard.”

“Right back at you.”

They chuckled. “I’m not the one in the field, Beauregard.”

“I know. But you’ve still got to be careful.”

“That’s never been my problem.” Dairon tapped the back of Beau’s neck, where her tattoo was. “May Ioun guide you to the truth.”

Beau echoed the motion, finding the smooth lines of Dairon’s own engraving. “And may her eye watch over you.” 

They stayed, eyes locked for a moment, before Dairon’s hand slipped up, into her hair, ruffling it aggressively, though not unkindly. “And for Ioun’s sake, get a haircut, Beauregard!”

Beau gave them a little mock salute, as she walked back towards the elevator, jabbing at the button a few times before it lit up. She offered a friendly smile to the troll operator (she really should learn his name sometime) before asking for the reading room.

She found the one marked with her name easy enough, a tiny stone nook etched into the bowels of the building. She recognized instantly that it wouldn’t take very long to get through all the articles Brithwick had been able to pull for her; the stack of paper was only about six inches high, and she could probably take them out in one afternoon. 

The content of the reading itself was lacking. There were mentions of a tiny, devoted order, stretching all the way back to the first Dutch settlement on the isle of Manhattan, but nothing coherent. A few old photographs and portraits of the insignia scrawled on buildings or posts near the site of arson or a destroyed building. Beau flipped through the first few books, jotting down notes about the various incidents to which the insignia had been linked. The Slave Revolt of 1712, the Draft Riots in 1863, Race Riots of 1919. No explanation of why, or if people had even been seen scribbling the symbol down. Always the key, linked with the shackles. The angel wings had only shown up in the graffiti from 1919. 

Beau pressed the tiny arcane symbol on the lamp, and Brithwick showed up again. She asked him to pull records on the three riots in question, as well as anything on the well of magic underneath the city. He arrived quickly back with thick files on the riots, and a laughably small scribble on the well of magic that just said “nonexistent.” Beau spent the rest of the next few days reading about the riots, all of which had flung the city into complete chaos, and all of which had been some type of racial conflict. Beau remembered 1919 well. She had been at the Cobalt Soul’s retreat in the Adirondacks, but had devoured the papers about it. The Red Summer. Her community, her family, those had been the people she had been worried about. None of the other recruits had been human, let alone any species that lived north of 96th street. They couldn’t even imagine why she would have been upset about the whole thing.

In her own notebook, Beau wrote “race?” Something about that seemed wrong, though. It was more like hatred, something deep seeded and menacing. That it could be traced back to 1712, and then went quiet until the Civil War seemed significant somehow, though she couldn’t say why. 

Two days of intensive reading passed relatively quickly. She was finally getting to the last page of the file on the Red Summer (she had taken it slowly because it was, largely, painful to relive) when she stopped. There was a little footnote on the strange insignia found in the wreckage of the first riot, and a helpful connection to 1712 and 1863 created by some previous researcher, which was probably how Brithwick had made the connection in the first place. However, perhaps the same researcher, perhaps a different one, had also written in quick, sloppy strokes, “Chains.” Something about that gave Beau pause, and she dutifully copied it into her notebook.

Chains. Obviously, there was the connection to slavery, and the Angel of Irons. Maybe Beau had been looking at it wrong. Maybe there was some connection to abolition that she wasn’t seeing buried in the dogma of a religious group. But that couldn’t be right. Why would an abolitionist group connect itself to two of the most brutal race riots in the history of the city? 

Chains. She wished she knew more about the Angel of Irons. It was sort of bizarre, really, that the Cobalt Soul had virtually nothing about the deity they worshipped, when they had information on everyone except… Beau’s eyes shot open. The Cobalt Soul, as followers of Ioun, had knowledge on every deity, trying to gather and respect as many things in the known universe as possible. And they were always trying to expand that, so it was highly unlikely that any religious sect could form in the city without a single researcher, historian, or detective getting curious and looking into them further. That’s how there was even a foot-thick file on Uk’otoa, despite being a new cult that had only emerged a few years ago, though they had an awareness of the actual sea snake sequestered in the ocean. 

But there was one deity whose feud with Ioun was so great that there was a ban on any knowledge about them entering the Cobalt Soul. His name couldn’t even be spoken within these halls. Beau looked back at the word. Chains. Of course. Now that she saw it, it couldn’t be more obvious. The Chained Oblivion. Tharizdun.

Well, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slight delay in posting this chapter. While I've been writing this fic to distract myself from the craziness of a pandemic, the world does tend to seep in, and I sort of struggled getting this one right. I know it's a bit of a slower chapter, but I really want to have a few chill ones before a lot of stuff starts happening at once again. That being said, I'll try my best to stick to an every-other-day posting schedule. Now...
> 
> Addendum:  
> \- The Slave Revolts of 1712 resulted in the killing of nine white people in New York.  
> \- The Draft Riots of 1863 were the product of orders of direct enlistment from the government. In retaliation, Irish-Americans rioted and targeted black people living in Manhattan.  
> \- The Race Riots of 1919 sprung from an argument between a black man and a white man in Harlem, that resulted in thousands of black people packed on the streets. It was part of the Red Summer, which was a lot of systematized violence against black New Yorkers. This was just part of the growing racism and anti-semitism of America in the 1920s.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try and add a little index of various things that I took inspiration from or referenced at the end of each chapter. But all in all, this story is heavily influenced by the fiction of Paul Auster, the works of Dashiell Hammett, film noir, "The Diviners" series by Libba Bray, Dimension 20: The Unsleeping City, and my own experiences living in New York. I'm fascinated by the Jazz Age, and as a (potential) history major, this is a fun way to incorporate some stuff I know. I'm going to try to be as accurate as possible, but if I make mistakes, please, correct me! 
> 
> I'd also like to preface this story by saying that all members of the Mighty Nein will show up at some point, but they all are quite different people than those we know and love, in large part because many of them are meeting later in life. I'll try to keep characterization as close to the original as possible, but many of them have different backstories that I hope to explore. 
> 
> This fanfic may end up becoming a beast, but I'm excited to undertake this journey with y'all!
> 
> Index:  
> Nebula Magus: literally magic fog in latin.  
> M’téoulin: The word in Eastern-Algonquin for "Native Magic"  
> San Juan Hill: The neighborhood currently known as Hell's Kitchen, in Manhattan in the west 40s and 50s, formerly occupied by many Puerto Rican Migrants after the Jones-Shafroth act of 1917 that made Puerto Ricans citizens of the United States  
> The Elevator: Invented in 1852 by Elisha Otis  
> Trinity Church Wall Street: Episcopal Church, first chartered in 1697  
> Central Park: Built by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux in 1857  
> The New York Public Library at 42nd Street: Constructed in 1911


End file.
